WORLD  TO  BLAME 


BS«TRAND  SMITH? 


140   PACIFIC   AVEMU8 
CAUP. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 


BSRTRAND  SMITH-- 

ACRES  rih  SOOKS 

14»  PACIFIC    AVENUM 
LON«  BEACH.  CAUP. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 


BY 

WALDORF  H.  PHILLIPS, 

AUTHOR  OF  "Ax  THB  MISKS,"  "WHAT  DO  You  THINK  OF  HIM?"  ETC.,  ETC.,  ETC. 


— '-Ite 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CLAXTON,  REMSEN  &  HAFFELFINGER, 

624,  626  &  628  MARKET  STREET. 

1874. 


7 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

WALDORF  H.  PHILLIPS, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


>*% 

3.  FAGA.N  ft   SON, 
BTEREOTYPiJRS,   PHILAD'A. 


TO 


GRATEFUL  TO  MY  GOD,  THAT 

HE  HAS  BLESSED  ME 

WITH  SUCH  A 

FATHER  AND  MOTHER. 


2312471 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
LESLIE  WYNDHAM 13 

CHAPTER  II. 
THE  FIRST  CURSE  —  JEALOUSY 23 

CHAPTER  III. 
THE  OTHER  CURSE — DRINK 29 

CHAPTER  IV. 
FATHER  AND  SON 33 

CHAPTER  V. 

MARY  FARLY'S  HOME      ..;....    37 

CHAPTER  VI. 

WHAT  THE  MORNING  BROUGHT 44 

CHAPTER  VII. 
AFTER  THE  MURDER 48 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
IN  THE  TOMBS 60 

CHAPTER  IX. 

TRIED  FOR  HIS  LIFE 67 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  BITTERNESS  OF  THE  SOUL 78 

zi 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XI. 
CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT 86 

CHAPTER  XII. 
A  BURGLAR 91 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  END  OF  A  SAD  LIFE 96 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

JAMES  FARLY'S  CONFESSION 106 

CHAPTER  XV. 
SELF  AND  DUTY 121 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

"DUST  THOU  ART,  TO  DUST  RETURNETH."      .  .  .123 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
THE  LION  OF  THE  DAY 127 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
How  CRIMINALS  ARE  MADE 135 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
ALICE         ,       .       .N 141 

CHAPTER  XX. 
A  CHANCE  MEETING 146 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
CAUGHT 155 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

To  THE  WORLD        .  .  159 


THE 

WORLD  TO  BLAME, 


CHAPTER  I. 

LESLIE  WYNDHAM. 

AT  the  age  of  thirty-five,  Leslie  Wyndham  had 
earned  for  himself  a  name  and  a  moderate  for- 
tune. He  was  a  fine-looking  man,  with  eyes  large 
and  black,  which  seemed  to  read  your  very  thoughts 
at  a  glance;  hair  of  the  same  hue;  the  form  of  an 
Apollo;  a  high,  intellectual  forehead,  (though  a  high 
forehead  is  not  always  a  sign  of  intellectuality,) 
and,  altogether,  of  a  very  prepossessing  appearance. 
His  manners  were  mild  and  winning,  his  mind  well 
stored  with  knowledge,  firm  and  well  balanced,  and 
himself  cultivated,  gentlemanly,  courteous,  and  bril- 
liant. 

There  was  an  indefinable  something  attractive  about 
him.  Intellect  shone  in  his  eyes.  He  thought  quickly 
and  deeply,  but  not  over-hastily,  weighing  well  this 
and  that. 

He  was  upright;  his  temper  passionate,  but  under 

his  control;  his  sympathy  easily  aroused;  —  in  short,  a 

man  who  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  good  and  bad  of 

this  world ;  one  acquainted  with  its  curious  ways  and 

2  13 


14  THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

passions ;  a  man  who,  though  yet  young,  had  had  a 
vast  experience. 

And  here  we  may  be  allowed  to  remark,  that  age 
does  not  necessarily  bring  with  it  either  wisdom  or  ex- 
perience. One  may  pass  through  multitudes  of  vicissi- 
tudes, and  yet,  really,  have  no  experience. 

The  boy  of  fifteen  may  have  more  experience,  and 
greater  knowledge  of  the  world  and  its  passions,  than 
the  man  of  sixty,  though  he,  personally,  has  seen  noth- 
ing of  life,  while  the  man  has  passed  through  all  its 
troubles,  griefs,  and  joys. 

It  is  observation  which  is  experience. 

The  boy  of  fifteen,  who  observes  narrowly  the  mys- 
terious and  crazy  drama  of  life  going  on  around  him, 
has  more  true  experience  than  the  man  of  sixty,  who 
has  come  in  contact  with  the  rough  and  pleasant  sides 
of  life,  —  who  has  passed  through  the  giddy  whirlpool 
without  observing  what  was  taking  place  about  him. 

Observation,  we  repeat,  is  really  experience. 

By  profession,  Leslie  Wyndham  was  a  journalist. 
He  was  the  author  of  several  celebrated  works.  He 
had  been  the  War  Correspondent,  during  the  Crimean 
War,  of  one  of  the  best  and  most  influential  daily 
papers  published  in  Gotham,  and  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
five,  was  one  of  its  strongest  pillars. 

He  was  a  widower.  He  had,  as  he  thought  all  men 
should  do,  married  young,  and  his  wife  had  died  in 
giving  birth  to  his  only  child,  a  smart  boy  of  sixteen 
years,  who  lived  with  his  mother's  relatives  in  the  Bay 
State.  Once  a  month  regularly,  Leslie  Wyndham  met 
his  son  and  passed  two  or  three  days  with  him ;  and 
then  came  an  affectionate  parting  on  both  sides. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  15 

"Wyndham  had  no  settled  residence,  but  when  in 
New  York,  he  resided  with  a  Mrs.  Crosswell. 

Mrs.  Crosswell  was  a  widow,  and  the  virtues  of  the 
"  late  departed "  were  always  before  her  eyes.  She 
kept  a  private  boarding-house,  though  not  for  the  sake 
of  "  company,"  merely. 

Here  he  found  a  field  for  character-study.  There 
was  Mr.  Suiggins,  who,  figuratively  speaking,  always 
turned  up  his  nose  at  the  table,  while  his  wife  eyed 
everything  suspiciously;  Mr.  Fine,  who  imagined 
himselfyme-r  and  better  than  any  one  else,  (his  board 
bill  was  not  punctually  settled;)  the  duplex  Air.  Smith, 
—  Christian  name  John,  —  and  others. 

It  was  at  Mrs.  Crosswell's  that  Leslie  Wyndham 
met  the  woman  who  was  to  have  such  an  influence  on 
his  after  life.  He  had  been  there  some  two  successive 
months,  before,  in  answer  to  an  advertisement,  a  gen- 
tleman applied  for  board  and  lodging  for  himself  and 
wife. 

"  A  newly-married  couple,"  announced  Mrs.  Cross- 
well,  confidentially,  at  the  table. 

"When  are  they  coming?"  asked  a  rather  wild 
young  lady. 

"  To-morrow  morning,  Mrs.  Pentham,"  replied  the 
landlady. 

"Oh,  my!"  with  a  sigh,  "I  suppose  we'll  have  to 
be  on  our  good  behavior  for  a  week ! "  said  Mrs.  Peii- 
tham,  demurely. 

Mrs.  Pentham  was  the  life  of  Mrs.  Crosswell's  house. 

"  Such  a  wild,  lively,  full-of-spirits,  enchanting  mar- 
ried woman,  I  never  did  see,"  the  landlady  had  re- 
marked to  Leslie  Wyndhara. 


16  THE  WOULD  TO  BLAME. 

"  A  little  too  wild  for  a  married  woman,"  thought 
Mr.  Wyndham,  after  a  few  days'  observance  of  her. 

Leslie  Wyndham  met  the  newly-married  couple  at 
the  dinner-table  the  following  evening,  and  was  duly 
introduced  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farly. 

Mr.  Farly  was  a  man  of  prepossessing  appearance, 
well  educated,  and  well  versed  on  all  the  topics  of  the 
day ;  by  occupation,  a  stock  broker. 

Mrs.  Farly  was  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  with 
deep  black  eyes,  handsome  features,  and  slender  form ; 
in  short,  a  beautiful  woman.  Her  conversation  was 
fascinating,  attractive,  and  full  of  sound  common 
sense;  —  a  rather  strange  thing  in  a  woman,  especially 
of  her  age. 

Leslie  Wyndham  was  a  good  judge  of  character,  and 
what  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Farly  and  her  husband,  can 
best  be  inferred  from  the  following  extracts  from  his 
private  diary :  — 

"...  A  man  of  weak  mind ;  one  who  would  easily 
give  way  under  the  slightest  misfortune,  and  seek 
oblivion  in  drink.  A  man  of  strong  and  uncontrolled 
passions.  One  who,  persuaded  that  he  had  been 
wronged,  would  rush  blindly  into  crime,  to  be  re- 
venged. A  bad  temper ;  easily  influenced  by  others. 
He  has  quarrelled  with  his  wife  already.  Jealous. 
In  a  bad  business." 

Mrs.  Farly :  — 

"  A  smart,  intelligent  woman,  of  great  strength  of 
mind.  Virtuous  and  innocent.  Not  as  happy  as  she 
seems.  Thinks  she  loves  her  husband,  but  is  not  well 
mated." 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  17 

Leslie  Wyndham  occupied  the  adjoining  room  to 
that  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farly. 

Before  a  month  had  passed,  he  was  on  familiar  terms 
with  the  lady.  For  her  husband  he  experienced  a  sort 
of  indefinable  repugnance. 

His  opinion  of  the  two  remained  unchanged. 

And  so  six  uneventful  months  winged  their  rapid 
flight,  and  were  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  ocean  of 
Time.  But  as  they  were  the  beginning  of  the  eventual 
days,  we  shall  endeavor  to  review  them  in  as  few  words 
and  short  a  space  as  possible. 

The  journalist's  opinion  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farly,  — 
the  new  boarders  no  longer,  —  we  have  said  remained 
the  same ;  but  the  more  he  had  seen  of  the  lady,  the 
more  he  had  been  strongly  reminded  of  his  dead  wife, 
who  had  long  been  sleeping  in  her  grave,  but  never 
forgotten.  He  tried  not  to  think  of  Mrs.  Farly,  when 
he  found  that  he  began  to  feel  an  attachment  for  her. 
She  was  a  married  woman,  and  he  must  not  forget  that 
she  could  never  be  anything  more  to  him  than  a  friend. 
But  Leslie  Wyndham  was,  after  all,  only  human ;  he 
was  possessed  of  the  same  passions  and  emotions  as  the 
rest  of  us  poor  mortals.  If  Mrs.  Farly  could  never 
be  anything  to  him,  he  could,  nevertheless,  and,  what 
is  more,  he  did,  love  her. 

He  struggled  with  this  passion  as  only  a  strong  man 
with  upright  feelings,  can  struggle.  He  knew  very 
well  that  it  was  a  mad,  wrong  passion,  but  he  could 
not  help  it.  He  tried  not  to  own  even  to  himself  that 
he  felt  anything  stronger  than  friendship  for  her ;  yet, 
he  did. 

He  feared  for  her.     Her  husband  was  a  man  of 
2*  B 


18  THE  WOULD  TO  BLAME. 

strong  passions,  fierce  and  vindictive  in  his  nature, 
though  that  nature  was  inherently  weak.  Suppose 
some  reverse  should  overtake  him?  What  was  more 
probable  ?  He  was  a  stock  broker ;  he  would  become 
a  speculator,  if  he  was  not  one  already. 

Speculation  is  like  the  serpent;  it  fascinates  while  it 
destroys. 

Leslie  Wyndham  could  see  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farly's 
were  not  temperaments  suited  to  each  other. 

He  loved  her!  He  found  it  out  in  a  very  short 
time.  If  he  could  not  be  to  her  anything  but  a  friend, 
he  could  watch  over,  and,  if  chance  offered,  aid  her. 

And  how  were  the  husband  and  wife  getting  along 
together  during  these  six  months  ? 

She  liked  the  journalist ;  he  did  not.  He  was,  we 
have  said,  of  a  very  jealous  disposition. 

For  the  first  three  months  they  were  happy.  Then, 
alas,  came  little  quarrels.  Mary  Farly  could  ill  brook 
her  husband's  domineering  manner,  his  little  petty 
jealousies.  She  could  not  be  his  slave.  If  she  spoke 
to  a  gentleman  for  an  hour,  her  husband  talked  to  her 
about  it.  He  often  spoke  to  her  about  Leslie  Wynd- 
ham ;  he  did  not  like  to  see  her  so  much  in  his  com- 
pany. He  could  see  nothing  in  a  man  like  Wyndham, 
however  interesting  Mrs.  Farly  might  find  him. 

Such  jealous  dispositions  as  James  Farly's,  are  not, 
unfortunately,  exceptional ;  and  a  wife,  it  matters  not 
how  good  she  may  be,  — and  especially  if  she  was,  like 
Mary  Farly,  intellectual  and  high  spirited,  —  cannot 
always  refrain  from  speaking  out  her  opinions  of  her 
husband;  cannot  bear  to  be  domineered  over. 

Between  husband  and  wife  there  should  exist  perfect 
love,  harmony,  and  trust. 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  19 

It  had  not  been  a  good  match.  Two  such  differ- 
ently constituted  persons  could  not  well  agree  together. 

They  quarrelled  !     This  was  the  beginning: 

Leslie  Wyndhain  had  spent  the  evening  at  home. 
They  were  all  congregated  in  Mrs.  Crosswell's  sitting- 
room,  a  favorite  place  of  resort  after  the  dinner  was 
over. 

Mrs.  Crosswell  herself,  Mr.  Sniggins,  lively  Mrs. 
Pentham,  and  James  Farly,  sat  round  the  card-table 
playing  whist. 

Leslie  Wyndham,  who  did  not,  or  but  seldom,  touch 
cards,  and  Mrs.  Farly  sat  apart  talking  and  laughing 
together. 

A  man  like  Wyndham  could  not  fail  to  interest  a 
woman  like  Mrs.  Farly.  He  spoke  of  literature,  art, 
music,  and  the  drama,  —  subjects  peculiarly  attractive 
to  her. 

James  Farly  ever  and  anon  cast  a  glance  over  at 
them.  He  did  not  like  to  see  them  so  conversant  with 
each  other. 

Mrs.  Pentham  rallied  him  on  his  play. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Farly,  what  are  you  doing  ?  You  're 
playing  awful !  You  don't  pay  any  attention  at  all  to 
the  game  !  Come,  wake  up  !  Play  right !  " 

He  murmured  something.  He  was  growing  restless 
and  uneasy.  His  jealous  disposition  gave  him  little 
peace.  He  longed  to  speak  out,  but  he  could  not 
before  "  everybody."  But  he  was  glad  when  the  game 
came  to  an  end. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Farly,  tired  already  ?  What,  ain't  you 
going  to  play  another  game?  What  ails  you?" 

"  I  can't  play  to-night,"  he  replied ;  "  I  don't  feel 


20  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

like  it.  My  mind  wanders  from  the  cards,  and  I  'd 
rather  not  play.  Besides,  I  have  had  a  very  busy  day, 
and  feel  tired  out.  Good-night,  all.  Ready,  Mary?" 

"  In  one  minute,  James." 

"  All  right ;  I  'm  going  up.  Be  up  soon,"  he  said, 
and  hastily  left  the  room. 

He  felt  that  if  he  remained  there  much  longer  he 
must  speak  out ;  he  could  not  control  his  passion.  It 
was  gnawing  at  his  very  vitals. 

"Oh,"  thought  Mrs.  Pentham,  "he  is  jealous! 
That 's  right !  He  'd  like  that  woman  to  be  his  slave ! 
I  'd  teach  him  if  he  was  my  husband  !  I  'd  flirt  just 
as  much  as  I  pleased !  " 

.  It  was  full  half  an  hour  before  Mrs.  Farly  ascended 
to  her  room.  Her  husband  was  seated  in  the  arm- 
chair before  the  fire,  his  head  resting  on  his  hand. 
He  had  not  recovered  from  his  jealous  fit ;  he  was 
waiting  for  his  wife  to  vent  his  anger. 

"  Well,  James,"  she  began.  She  was  going  to  ask 
him  if  he  was  ill,  but  he  interrupted  her. 

"  You  Ve  come  up  at  last ! " 

There  was  nothing  in  the  words  themselves,  but  it 
was  the  tone,  the  manner  in  which  they  were  spoken. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  James  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  just  wanted  to  know  if  you  had  finished  your 
interesting  conversation  with  that  puppy,  Wyndham," 
he  said,  sneeringly. 

The  words  stung  her  to  the  quick,  touched  her  pride, 
and  aroused  her  indignation. 

"  James  Early,"  she  cried,  "  you  shall  not  insult  Mr. 
Wyndham  and  myself  in  that  manner.  I  will  not 
listen  to  it." 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  21 

"  '  Mr.  Wynclham  and  myself/  "  he  repeated,  mock- 
ingly. "  That 's  right !  I  was  only  made  to  support 
you  while  you  enjoyed  yourself  in  other  men's  com- 
pany !  /  was  only  made  to  trouble,  to  toil,  to  wear 
my  life  out,  that  you  might  amuse  yourself!  / — " 

The  hot  blood  rushed  to  her  face,  and  suffused  her 
cheeks.  Her  eyes  flashed  with  indignation,  as  she  cut 
him  short. 

"  Stop  ! "  she  cried.  "  You  shall  not  insult  me  in 
this  manner  !  You  shall  not !  " 

His  passion  was  fast  getting  the  better  of  him. 

"  And  I  will  not  have  you  talk  to  that  man  ! "  he 
said,  passionately.  "  I  expressly  forbid  you  to !  I 
will  not  stand  it,  I  tell  you  !  You  must  behave  your- 
self as  my  wife  should !  You  shall  not  disgrace  my 
name ! " 

Again  the  hot  blood  rushed  to  her  face.  If  she  had 
any  bad  quality,  it  was  pride. 

She  spoke  angrily. 

"  I  will  talk  to  whom  I  please,  and  when  I  please," 
she  said.  "  I  am  not  your  slave,  Mr.  Farly,  to  be 
commanded  what  to  do,  and  what  not  to  do !  I  will 
not  be  insulted  by  my  husband !  You  must  treat  me 
with  proper  respect,  or  I  will  not  speak  to  you !  I 
wish  I  had  never  seen  you !  Oh,  why,  why  did  I 
marry  you?" 

"  Beware !  "  he  cried,  threateningly,  half  rising  from 
the  chair. 

"  That 's  right,  coward  that  you  are  !  Threaten  me, 
strike  me,  like  the  man  that  you  are  !  I  loathe  you  ! 
I  despise  you,  with  your  mean  little  jealousies  !  " 

She  repented  the  words  the  minute  she  had  spoken 
them. 


22  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  with  a  look  no  pen 
can  picture !  One  little  word  then,  would  have  made 
love  reign  again. 

But,  no !  She  would  not  speak  that  word.  He,  her 
husband,  placed  no  faith,  no  trust  in  her.  It  was  all 
his  fault,  she  argued. 

Ah !  they  were  both  in  fault ;  but  pride,  cursed 
pride,  would  not  allow  them  to  acknowledge  it. 

"  Enough  !  "  he  said,  chokingly.  "  We  know  each 
other  now.  In  public,  we  must  appear — " 

He  could  not  say  the  word.     It  stuck  in  his  throat. 

She  loathed  him  ! 

He  arose.  He  was  on  fire.  There  was  murder  at 
his  heart. 

He  left  the  room,  hurriedly.  He  must  go  out  into 
the  fresh  air  where  he  could  breathe. 

When  he  had  gone,  she  fell  into  a  chair  and  wept. 

"  Why  did  he  not  speak  ?  "  she  moaned. 

Each  had  been  waiting  for  the  other  to  speak  that 
one  word,  and  —  it  had  remained  unsaid. 

She  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep. 

It  was  very  late  when  he  came  in,  and  cast  himself, 
without  undressing,  on  the  sofa. 

There  was  little  rest  for  either  of  them  thai,  night, 
for  he,  too,  was  uneasy  and  dissatisfied  with  himself. 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  23 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE   FIEST  CURSE  —  JEALOUSY. 

THIS  quarrel  ended,  of  course,  in  a  reconciliation  ; 
but  it  left  its  effects.  After  this,  they  both  felt 
that  the  dream  had  ended ;  that  they  could  not  be  to 
each  other  again,  what  they  had  been. 

Frequently,  angry  words  passed  between  them.  Mr. 
Farly  spent  his  evenings  out;  Leslie  Wyndham  at  home. 

The  journalist  thought  that  he  should  go  away  from 
this  house,  but  he  could  not.  He  saw  that  there  had 
been  a  quarrel  between  the  husband  and  wife ;  he,  alone, 
noted  the  little  differences  in  them,  and  instinctively 
felt  that  he  was  the  cause  of  the  change. 

Mrs.  Farly  was  becoming  dearer  to  him.  In  the 
absence  of  her  husband,  she  was  almost  constantly  in 
his  company. 

And  so  the  six  months  had  passed. 

We  have  said  that  James  Farly  spent  his  evenings 
away  from  his  home. 

He  considered  himself  a  misused  man.  He  looked 
on  Leslie  Wyndham  as  the  cause  of  the  estrangement 
between  him  and  his  wife,  and  he  hated  the  journalist. 

Such  men  as  James  Farly,  when  in  his  position,  or 
similar  ones,  take  to  drink. 

James  Farly  lingered  around  hotels  and  bar-rooms. 
He  essayed  to  drown  his  thoughts  in  fiery  liquor,  but 
he  had  not,  as  yet,  become  so  debased  as  to  go  to  his 
home  in  a  state  of  intoxication. 


24  THE  WORLD  TO   BLAME." 

There  were  times  when  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself. 

One  night,  or,  rather,  evening,  he  arrived  home,  tired, 
sullen,  and  morose. 

There  had  been  a  great  agitation  in  the  market  that 
day,  and  every  one  conversant  with  stocks,  foresaw  a 
panic. 

He  did  not  speak  to  any  one,  nor  appear  at  the  din- 
ner-table ;  his  wife  excused  him. 

She  questioned  him  as  to  what  was  the  matter  with 
him.  She  did  not  like  to  see  him  in  his  present  state 
of  mind. 

He  did  not  answer  her,  except  by  a  sharp,  "  Don't 
bother  me!  I  have  enough  to  trouble  me,  without 
you  annoying  me." 

She  did  not  question  him  further. 

He  went  out  early,  and  it  was  late  when  he  returned. 
He  had  been  imbibing  heavily,  and,  though  she  was 
awake  in  bed  when  he  came  into  the  room,  she  pre- 
tended to  be  asleep. 

He  did  not  speak,  but  muttered  to  himself.  She 
could  smell  the  liquor  in  his  breath.  It  disgusted  and 
sickened  her. 

He  fell  asleep  in  the  arm-chair,  and  his  deep,  hard 
breathing,  alone  broke  the  silence. 

She  could  not  sleep.  Need  we  say  it?  She  was 
afraid  of  him  in  his  present  state.  Her  pillow  was 
bedewed  with  hot,  scalding  tears. 

Oh  !  what  misery  to  be  tied  for  life  to  such  a  man  ! 
She  compared  him  with  Leslie  Wyndham,  to  the  latter's 
great  advantage. 

Towards  morning,  she  fell  into  a  doze,  and  when  she 
awoke,  he  had  already  left  the  house. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  25 

How  she  passed  the  day  can  be  imagined.  She 
moved  about  mechanically,  but  her  thoughts  were  far 
away  from  herself.  She  remained  at  home,  restless 
and  heavy-hearted. 

It  was  a  very  busy  day  in  the  stock  market.  There 
was  a  panic.  Stocks  rose  rapidly,  which  before  had 
sold  at  less  than  par,  and  those  which  had  been  con- 
sidered of  the  greatest  value,  and  the  most  secure  for 
investment,  suddenly  declined. 

Men  ran  around  wild,  distracted,  trying  to  cover 
their  losses,  and  keep  a  firm  footing.  Such  an  exciting 
day  had  never  been  witnessed  in  the  Stock  Exchange. 

James  Farly  came  home  late,  after  the  dinner  hour, 
and  hurried  to  his  room,  looking  entirely  demented. 

His  wife  was  in  the  room,  but  for  some  minutes  he 
said  not  a  word  to  her,  but,  casting  himself  recklessly 
into  a  chair,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  for  a  long 
time  sat  in  this  attitude  of  dejection,  staring  ruin  in 
the  face. 

He  was  deliberating  how  to  break  the  terrible  news 
to  her.  His  jealousy  was,  for  the  time  being,  forgotten. 

Suddenly,  he  raised  his  head  and  spoke. 

"  Mary,  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

She  came  to  his  side,  and  said  gently : 

"  What  is  it  ?     You  are  troubled." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  cannot  bear  up  under  it,"  he  said. 
"  It  has  been  a  very  busy  and  exciting  day.  At  one 
time  I  thought  I  would  have  gone  crazy.  You  know," 
(she  did  not  know,)  "  I  have  dabbled  considerably  in 
stocks  lately.  The  market  has  greatly  fallen  to-day, 
and  unless  there  is  a  change,  we  are — " 

"  Ruined !  "  she  said,  calmly. 


26  THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

"  Ruined ! "  he  repeated. 
******* 

They  passed  the  evening  in  their  own  room.  For 
the  first  time  in  a  long  while,  James  Farly  remained 
at  home. 

What  they  said  can  better  be  imagined  than  de- 
scribed. 

It  is  better  never  to  have  wealth,  than  to  have  it  and 
lose  it. 

The  following  morning,  Farly  was  at  his  office  very 
early,  and  his  wife  passed  the  day  in  nervous  expecta- 
tion and  anxiety. 

Leslie  Wyndham  reached  his  home  at  five  o'clock 
that  afternoon,  and  stopped  at  her  room  door  to  con- 
verse with  her. 

She  sat  in  the  rocking-chair  by  the  window. 

In  his  character  of  journalist  it  had  been  Leslie 
Wyndham's  duty  to  record  the  events  of  the  Wall 
street  panic,  and  among  the  list  of  failures,  he  had  that 
day  been  compelled  to  place  the  name  of 

"  James  Farly" 

He  refrained  carefully  from  mentioning  the  subject 
at  all,  and  she,  though  wishing,  yet  not  daring  to,  did 
not  question  him  in  regard  to  it. 

While  thus  engaged  in  trivial  conversation,  the  hall 
door  opened  and  closed,  and  a  man's  heavy  footstep 
ascended  the  stairs. 

This  man  was  James  Farly. 

His  head  was  bent,  and  he  half  crazed  by  the  heavy 
blow  which  had  fallen  on  him  that  day. 

As  he  reached  his  room  door,  his  eyes  fell  on  Leslie 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  27 

Wyndham,  an  angry  scowl  convulsed  his  features,  and 
he  walked  into  the  room  with  an  unsteady  step,  trem- 
bling with  passion,  and,  without  a  word,  slammed  the 
door  to  in  the  journalist's  face. 

Wyndham  paid  no  attention  to  the  rude  action.  He 
knew  full  well  the  opinion  James  Farly  had  of  him ; 
so  he  went  into  his  own  apartment,  adjoining  theirs. 

He  could  hear  their  voices  in  angry  dispute,  and 
judged  of  the  scene  passing  in  their  room. 

Once  or  twice  he  heard  his  own  name  mentioned, 
and  before  his  eye  he  saw  a  jealous,  half-crazed,  torn- 
with-passion  man,  and  a  gentle,  though  proud  and 
spirited  woman. 

He  longed  to  go  into  her  room  and  take  her  part, 
but  his  good  sense  restrained  him  from  obeying  the 
impulse. 

He  passed  the  evening  in  his  own  apartment,  and 
Mary  Farly  remained  up  stairs,  also. 

Her  husband  had  left  her  in  anger,  and,  fearing  for 
his  safety,  she  remained  up  waiting  for  him. 

The  weary  hours  passed.  The  clock  on  the  mantel 
struck  the  hour  of  one,  when  she  heard  him  open  the 
house  door. 

With  the  exception  of  Mary  Farly  and  Leslie  Wynd- 
ham, the  house  was  wrapped  in  slumber. 

He  came  staggering  up  the  stairs,  the  fumes  of  his 
liquor-laden  breath  pervading  the  hall  and  stairway. 
He  staggered  into  the  room  in  a  beastly  state  of  in- 
toxication. 

Leslie  Wyndham  heard  him,  and  listened  intently. 

Mary  Farly  shuddered  with  inexpressible  loathing, 
as  she  saw  her  husband. 


28  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

"Up,  eh?  (hie,)"  he  said  loudly. 

"  'Sh !  You  '11  wake  the  whole  house  up,  if  you 
talk  so  loud,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  And  who  cares  if  I  do  ?  "  he  hiccoughed. 

"  I  do !  "  she  said.  "  If  you  have  lost  all  respect 
for  yourself,  and  all  your  sense  of  shame,  I  have  not. 
I  do  not  care  that  my  husband  should  be  seen  in  his 
present  condition." 

"  And  whose  fault  is  it,  eh  ?  " 

"  Your  own." 

"  You  lie !  woman.  It  is  yours,  and  your  para- 
mour's, Wyndham ! " 

The  hot  blood  leapt  wildly  through  her  veins ;  her 
bosom  heaved  with  indignation,  and  her  whole  frame 
shook  with  anger,  and  a  sense  of  gross  injustice.  But 
she  controlled  her  passion  by  a  mighty  eifort,  and  said 
calmly :  — 

"  James  Farly,  you  know  not  what  you  say.  Were 
you  sober,  I  would  make  you  take  those  words  back ; 
as  it  is — " 

"  It 's  the  truth,  eh  ?  "  he  hiccoughed,  angrily. 

"You  LIE!" 

She  could  not  keep  the  words  back.  They  burst 
from  her  pale  lips  spontaneously. 

"  What ! "  he  cried.  "  How  dare  you  say  that  to 
me?" 

He  arose,  sobered,  from  the  chair  he  had  fallen  into, 
as  he  spoke. 

Leslie  Wyndham  could  not  restrain  himself  any 
longer.  He  had  heard  every  word  they  had  spoken. 

He  went  out  of  his  room,  and  opened  and  closed 
their  door  quietly,  without  their  noticing  him. 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  29 

James  Farly  stood  over  his  wife  with  uplifted  arm, 
and  clenched  fist,  ready  to  strike  her. 

All  his  sense  of  manliness  rebelled  at  the  sight,  and 
with  a  spring,  the  journalist  rushed  between  the  two, 
and  caught  the  descending  arm. 

"Coivard!"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  world  of  in- 
tense loathing  in  the  one  word. 

In  an  instant,  James  Farly  became  perfectly  sober. 

Again  this  man  had  come  between  him  and  his  wife  ! 
******* 

Neither  of  the  trio  slept  that  night. 

They  met  the  next  morning  at  the  breakfast-table, 
but  not  a  word  passed  between  them. 

That  was  the  last  time  they  ever  met  together  in 
Mrs.  Crosswell's  house. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farly  had  come  there  happy;  they 
left  there  that  day,  miserable. 

What  was  to  be  the  end  ? 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  OTHER  CUESE  —  DRINK. 

WHAT  was  to  be  the  end  ?     What  was  the  end  ? 
It  can  be  told  in  a  few  words,  if  the  reader  has 
not  already  guessed  it. 

James  Farly's  descent  was  very  rapid.     The  first 
false  step,  and  the  others  quickly  follow.     It  is  yery 
easy  to  descend  the  ladder. 
3* 


30  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

His  wife  still  remained  with  him,  though  her  load 
seemed  greater  than  she  could  bear.  She  worked  hard 
with  her  needle  for  the  little  pittance  that  supported 
her. 

Oh,  it  is  bitter  for  one  accustomed  to  the  luxuries 
of  life  to  live  in  poverty  ! 

With  the  exception  of  Leslie  Wyndham,  all  her 
friends  (?)  had  deserted  her. 

James  Farly,  now  that  he  had  lost  his  fortune,  had 
no  friends  but  those  he  made  in  the  bar-room.  All 
his  earnings  went  for  drink. 

He  came  home,  every  night,  to  their  little  garret,  in 
the  same  beastly  state  of  intoxication. 

This  could  not  last  long.  His  wife  had  not  entirely 
ceased  to  love  him,  but  she  could  not  bear  to  live  with 
him  in  his  present  condition. 

For  two  nights,  in  company  with  the  journalist,  she 
followed  him,  and  saw  him,  with  what  feelings  God 
alone  knew,  enter  a  notorious  house  of  prostitution. 

It  was  then  that  Leslie  Wyndham  begged  her  to 
procure  a  divorce.  He  would  aid  her.  It  was  not 
right  that  she  should  be  compelled  to  live  with  a  man 
like  the  one  she  called  her  husband. 

She  could  procure  a  divorce ;  and,  as  she  had  de- 
termined not  to  accept  of  any  charity,  but  to  work  for 
her  living,  he  would  secure  her  a  nice,  quiet  place  as 
governess  in  a  family  of  his  acquaintance,  who  resided 
in  the  country,  where  she  could  live  in  peace. 

What  could  be  the  result  ? 

"  Put  yourself  in  her  place." 

On  one  side  was  a  life  of  poverty,  with  a  drunkard 
for  a  husband.  On  the  other  haudj  a  good  home  was 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  31 

offered  her  by  a  man  whom  she  knew  loved  her,  and 
whom  she  liked  and  admired. 

Oh,  it  was  a  hard  and  bitter  struggle ! 

It  took  her  a  long  time  to  decide,  though  the  life 
she  was  leading  was  unbearable. 

Rum  and  liquor  have  worked  more  ruin  and  done 
more  harm  than  all  the  armies  the  world  ever  saw. 

Rum  !  the  curse  of  civilization  ;  the  destroyer  of  the 
body  and  the  mind;  the  serpent  of  the  home  circle;  the 
agent  of  the  devil ! 

The  cause  of  nine-tenths  of  the  murders,  and  divorces, 
and  tragedies  daily  taking  place,  can  be  traced  to  this 
satanic  agent. 

Curse  upon  curse  have  been  heaped  upon  its  head, 
and  still  it  goes  on  destroying  whatever  it  touches, 
laying  its  blighting  hand  upon  father,  brother,  and 
husband;  dealing  in  death  in  its  most  agonizing  form; 
leaving  destruction  and  desolation  along  its  triumphant 
way;  striking  at  the  very  roots  of  earthly  happiness; 
tempting  and  alluring  with  false  hopes  and  promises; 
consoling  while  destroying,  —  the  worst  enemy  of  man- 
kind, —  the  very  spirit  of  HELL  on  earth  ! 
*  *  *  #  *  *  * 

James  Farly  came  home  one  night,  in  his  usual 
beastly  state  of  intoxication. 

No  wife  awaited  him  ;  no  one  welcomed  him. 

He  waited  and  waited,  after  sleeping  off  his  drunk- 
enness. 

He  searched  for  the  woman  he  called  wife. 

Without  avail ! 

Only  a  short  note  on  the  rickety  table,  directed  in  a 
trembling  hand  to  him,  rewarded  his  search. 


32  THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

It  was  very,  very  short.     All  it  said  was : 

Farewell!  God  forgive  me  and  bless  and  reform 
you !  Farewell !  MARY. 

He  read  it  over  a  dozen  times.  He  could  not  under- 
stand it. 

For  some  time  after  its  full  meaning  burst  upon  his 
mind  in  all  its  terrible  significance,  he  sat  perfectly 
motionless. 

There  was  a  dull  feeling  at  his  heart;  his  brain 
whirled,  and  a  terrible  sense  of  loneliness  came  over 
him. 

There  he  sat,  as  motionless  as  a  statue,  benumbed 
and  half-paralyzed  under  this  last  fearful  blow;  under 
this  last  ruin,  which  he,  himself,  had  erected  with  his 
own  hands,  and  which  had  tumbled  over  his  head, — sat 
in  mute  anguish  and  looked  upon  the  ruin,  —  the  ruin 
which  rum  and  jealousy  had  caused. 

Oh  !  these  two  are  mighty  powerful  and  destructive 
agents  singly !  But  now  they  had  been  combined ! 
They  had  worked  hard  together  for  a  human  soul,  and 
conquered ! 

That  soul  was  theirs  ! 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  33 

CHAPTER  IV. 

FATHER   AND   SON. 

IN  one  of  the  most  fashionable  and  populous  streets 
in  the  Empire  City,  there  stood  a  magnificent  four- 
story-brown  stone  house.  Imposing  as  its  exterior 
undoubtedly  was,  its  interior  was  no  less  luxurious 
and  beautiful. 

And  this  large  and  magnificent  mansion,  with  all 
its  wealth  of  furniture,  pictures,  etc.,  was  occupied  by 
two  men  solely,  if  we  except  the  five  servants  who 
took  care  of  it. 

These  two  men  were  Leslie  "Wyndham  and  his  son 
Frederick. 

During  these  last  six  years,  Leslie  Wyndham  had 
amassed  wealth  very  rapidly ;  everything  he  touched 
seemed  to  turn  into  gold. 

He  had  also  been  married.  It  was  on  the  occasion 
of  his  second  marriage  that  he  had  purchased  the  fine 
residence  we  have  mentioned,  and,  having  sent  for  his 
son,  who  at  that  time  was  in  his  nineteenth  year,  set- 
tled down  into  private  life,  bestowing  charity  wherever 
he  thought  it  deserving,  and  earning  the  name  of  a 
true  philanthropist. 

But  again  he  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  wife, 
three  years  before  we  re-introduce  him  to  your  notice. 

He  is  sitting  in  his  room,  by  the  side  of  an  elegant 
marble  table,  on  which  stands  a  drop  light,  vainly 
endeavoring  to  read  the  evening  paper.  His  thoughts 

C 


34  THE   WOKLD  TO  BLAME. 

are  not  on  the  news  of  the  day,  but  on  one  dear,  very 
dear  to  him ;  one  to  whom  he  feels  he  must  soon  ad- 
dress words  of  reproach,  —  his  son. 

It  was  with  only  such  feelings  and  emotions  as  a 
true  father,  —  a  father  who  loved  his  son  as  Leslie 
Wyndham  loved  his,  —  can  know,  that  he  had  watched 
the  dissipated  life  Frederick  had  been  leading. 

Out  every  night  until  late  in  the  morning,  spending 
money  freely  and  not  in  the  best  of  ways,  it  was  no 
wonder  that  Frederick  Wyndham's  name  was  fre- 
quently mentioned  in  connection  with  reports  that,  to 
say  the  least,  did  not  do  him  much  credit. 

In  fact,  the  young  man  seemed  to  be  undoubtedly 
"  fast,"  in  the  general  acceptation  of  that  term ;  and 
though  he  loved  his  father  truly  and  devotedly,  still 
the  many  counsels,  and  warnings,  and  lectures,  as  he 
was  wont  to  call  them,  which  that  father  had  given 
him,  were  all  apparently  unheeded,  for  Frederick  had 
got  into  bad  company. 

He  was  known  to  gamblers  and  licentiates  ;  he  as- 
sociated with  "  sports,"  who  flattered  and  praised  him, 
who  called  him  a  jolly  good  fellow,  and  a  "  regular 
brick,  you  bet ; "  who  tickled  his  vanity,  and  would 
continue  to  do  so  as  long  as  he  had  the  wherewithal  to 
spend  for  their  amusement. 

He  had  got  into  bad  company  whom  he  found  it 
very  hard  to  shake  off.  They  clung  to  him  like  leeches, 
and  he  was  too  afraid  of  their  ridicule  to  tell  them 
what  the  "Governor"  said. 

When  a  man  is  ashamed  and  afraid  of  the  ridicule 
of  those  who  feed  upon  his  generosity,  the  natural  con- 
clusion would  seem  to  be  that  he  has  fallen  pretty  low. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  35 

So,  when  a  servant  told  him  that  his  father  wished 
to  see  him  before  he  left  the  house,  Frederick  knew 
what  was  coming,  and  prepared  himself  for  another 
"  lecture." 

Leslie  Wyndham  was  pacing  up  and  down  his  room 
with  unsteady  steps,  when  his  son  entered.  He  bade 
him  be  seated,  and,  seating  himself,  for  some  minutes 
remained  silent,  while  the  young  man,  with  an  inward 
feeling  of  unquiet  and  unrest,  thought,  "  Why  don't 
he  speak  and  be  done  with  it?" 

Frederick  was  a  very  fine-looking  young  man  ;  but 
the  marks  of  dissipation  were  engraven  on  his  face,  and 
more  especially  around  his  eyes. 

The  feelings  which  agitated  Leslie  Wyndham  can- 
not be  described ;  it  pained  him  greatly  to  speak 
harshly  to  his  son. 

Ah !  they  who  envied  him  little  thought  that  he 
could  be,  and  was,  very  unhappy. 

It  was  the  son  who  opened  the  conversation,  though 
not  without  a  guilty  twinge  of  conscience  at  the  part 
he  was  playing. 

"John  told  me  you  wished  to  see  me,"  he  said. 
"What  do  you  want  of  me,  father?" 

"  Frederick,"  said  his  father,  solemnly,  striving  to 
hide  his  emotion,  "  cannot  you  guess  what  I  wish  of 
you?" 

The  young  man  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"  Frederick,  you  are  young  and  inexperienced,  and 
still  you  do  not  heed  my  counsels  and  my  advice. 
Believe  me,  my  son,  —  for,  though  you  were  as  old  as 
Methuselah,  you  would  still  be  my  son,  —  it  is  as 
painful  for  me  to  be  compelled  to  reproach  you,  as  it 


36  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

possibly  can  be  for  you  to  listen  to  me.  Take  my 
advice,  —  the  advice  of  one  who  has  passed  through 
the  giddy  whirlpool  and  maelstrom  of  life,  Frederick. 
Marry,  and  settle  down;  give  up  the  life  you  are  lead- 
ing, for  it  can  only  end  in  your  ruin." 

His  voice  trembled,  and  tears  were  in  his  ejtes,  which 
he  could  not  suppress. 

"Father,"  answered  the  son,  "you  know  I  would 
not  do  anything  wrong." 

"No,  no,  my  son,  I  believe  you;  not  intentionally. 
But  our  passions  oft  get  the  better  of  us.  Oh,  Fred- 
erick, Frederick,  you  would  not  embitter  my  old  age, 
and  make  my  path  to  the  grave  a  path  of  thorns ! " 

He  gave  way ;  broke  down  completely  beneath  his 
emotion. 

Silence,  broken  alone  by  his  sobs,  reigned  for  a  few 
moments. 

Leslie  Wyndham  calmed  himself,  and  continued  : 

"You  are  about  to  go  out  again,  Frederick.  Re- 
main home  for  my  sake,  my  son ;  remain  home,  I  beg 
of  you.  Oh,  if  you  try,  only  try  once  to  break  away 
from  the  fascination  of  smiling  pleasures,  which  con- 
ceal in  their  gaudy  exterior  their  hidden  blackness, 
you  will  soon  rejoice  that  you  have  followed  my  ad- 
vice; you  will  learn  to  love  home  as  the  dearest, 
sweetest  spot  on  earth,  where  true  happiness  can  only 
be  found.  There  is  no  place  like  a  true  home,  my  son. 
Oh,  that  we  should  be  so  disregardless  of  it !  Few 
people  know  what  it  is  to  have  a  true  home.  No  one 
can  fully  appreciate  its  blessings.  Then  do  not  go  out, 
my  son,  but  stay  and  pass  the  night  with  me." 

Ah !  could  he  have  only  foreseen  a  little  way  ahead  of 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  37 

him ;  could  he  have  seen  the  misery,  the  anguish  of 
mind  his  answer  was  to  cause  him,  he  would  not  have 
said  as  he  did  say : 

"  I  have  an  important  engagement  to-night,  father, 
which  I  cannot  break.  After  to-night  I  promise  you 
faithfully  and  honestly,  father,  to  follow  your  counsel, 
for  I  know  you  love  me,  though  I  am  so  unworthy  of 
your  love.  I  have  been  ungrateful  and  blind,  but  I 
shall  be  so  no  longer." 

And  so  he  went  out.  Had  he  remained  at  home 
there  might  have  been  no  occasion  to  write  this  sad 
history. 

And  Leslie  Wyndham  was  satisfied  and  contented. 
He  believed  his  son  would  do  as  he  had  promised 
him  —  "  after  to-night." 

We  are  so  blind,  O  God,  in  our  present  security ! 


CHAPTER  V. 
MARY  FARLY'S  HOME. 

AND  now  it  becomes  necessary  .that  we  take  a  cur- 
sory glance  at  Mary  Farly. 

In  the  home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smithson,  the  friends 
of  Leslie  Wyndham,  where  he  had  procured  her  a 
situation  as  governess,  she  was  made  as  happy  and 
comfortable  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to  be,  with  the 
shadow  of  her  past  life  ever  before  her  eyes. 

Leslie  Wyndham  had  confided  to  his  friend,  Smith - 
4 


38  THE   WORLD   TO   BLAME. 

son,  the  history  of  Mary  Farly's  life  so  far  as  he  knew 
it,  and  so,  though  nominally  governess,  she  was  treated 
like  one  of  the  family ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
bitter  memories  of  the  past,  the  unhappy  past,  which 
could  not  be  blotted  out,  she  might  have  been  perfectly 
contented. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smithson  were  plain,  unpretentious 

people.     They  resided  in  M ,  a  country  town  not 

very  far  from  New  York. 

The  house  was  a  fine  country  residence,  surrounded 
by  spacious  and  elegantly  laid  out  grounds,  and  ivy 
and  evergreens  clambered  up  its  walls. 

Their  married  life  had  been  very  happy,  and  at  the 
time  Mary  Farly  first  entered  their  household,  their 
family  consisted  of  a  girl  and  boy,  aged  respectively 
eleven  and  nine. 

Mary  Farly  found  her  charges  very  easy  to  manage, 
and  apt  to  learn,  so  that  her  work,  if  such  it  might  be 
called,  was  light. 

And  so  the  six  years  had  passed,  with  an  occasional 
visit  from  Leslie  Wyudham,  without  any  special  im- 
portant events. 

And  though  the  heir  and  daughter  of  the  house  had 
grown  up,  still  Mary  Farly,  at  the  request  of  the  entire 
family,  remained,  and  was  made  to  feel  that  she  was 
not  dependent.  Otherwise  she  assuredly  would  have 
left  them,  for,  though  pride  and  poverty  do  not  well 
agree  together,  and  never  did  or  will,  yet  poor  people 
are  apt  to  be  proud  as  well  as  the  rich,  for  they,  too, 
are  only  human. 
******* 

Directly  opposite  Leslie  Wyudham's  residence,  there 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  39 

stood  a  small  brick  house,  which,  until  within  one 
month  previous  to  the  time  of  the  commencement  of 
the  second  part  of  this  history,  had  been  entirely  un- 
inhabited so  far  as  Leslie  Wyndham  could  remember 
in  regard  to  it. 

He  had  often  noticed  this  house  —  standing  in  one  of 
the  most  populous  and  fashionable  streets  in  the  city, 
with  its  time-worn  shutters  always  closed,  and  its  door 
never  opened  —  with  a  great  deal  of  curiosity.  To  him 
it  was  a  monument  of  man's  foolish  superstition  and 
prejudice,  and  he  never  could  quite  understand  why 
people  were  afraid  to  live  in  it. 

In  fact,  a  murder  had  been  committed  in  that  house 
some  years  before.  There  were  whispers  of  a  "  ghost 
in  ghastly  white,  stained  with  blood,"  which  walked 
the  place,  but  which  no  one  would  ever  swear  to  have 
seen  except  in  their  own  morbid  imaginations,  and  of 
unearthly  and  hollow  voices  that  made  the  blood 
curdle  in  one's  veins,  and  ringing  of  bells  being  heard 
at  certain  hours  of  the  night  when  all  respectable 
people,  save  the  police,  were  supposed  to  be  in  the 
arms  of  the  strictly  democratic  Morpheus. 

To  be  sure  these  were  only  rumors;  for,  though 
you  were  told  these  things  in  the  most  positive  manner, 
no  one  was  ready  to  swear  to  the  truth  of  them.  But 
they  had  the  effect,  however,  of  frightening  off  pur- 
chasers and  tenants,  and  the  owner  found  his  property, 
which  he  himself  would  not  inhabit,  a  burden  on  his 
hands,  and  one,  too,  that  he  had  to  pay  for ;  for  though 
the  house  was  haunted,  taxes  had  to  be  paid  all  the 
same.  So,  when  an  offer  was  made  to  rent  the  house 
for  a  couple  of  months,  he  very  gladly  accepted  it. 


40  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

Indeed,  he  would  have  allowed  any  one  to  have  lived 
in  it  rent-free,  could  he  have  found  a  responsible  party 
willing  to  do  so,  if  merely  to  clear  it  from  the  suspicion 
of  being  haunted,  and  to  prove  to  the  outside  world 
that  there  was  no  more  danger  in  it  than  in  any  other 
house. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  suddenly  painters  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene,  the  shutters  were  taken  down, 
and  new  ones  put  up,  and  a  general  air  of  brightness 
surrounded  the  old  deserted  mansion. 

The  gossips  began  to  talk  and  wonder  who  the  peo- 
ple were  who  had  hired  the  place,  and  the  neighbors 
congratulated  themselves  on  the  occupancy  of  the 
haunted  house. 

At  last  the  gossips  were  set  at  rest.  They  found  out 
that  the  people  who  had  hired  this  house  were  two 
middle-aged,  respectable  men  —  bachelors  who  were 
tired  of  boarding-houses  and  hotels,  and  who  intended 
to  keep  bachelors'  hall,  "  all  by  themselves." 

Their  names  were  Thomas  Castle  and  Philip  Marton, 
and  rumor  (fickle  jade !)  had  it  that  they  were  immensely 
wealthy,  and  moved  in  the  first  circles ;  also  that  Philip 
Marton  had  all  to  say,  or,  in  other  words,  that  Castle 
was  the  slave  of  Marten's  will. 

Undoubtedly  they  proved  quiet  neighbors ;  no  one 
saw  them  leave  or  enter  the  house ;  they  seemed  to  have 
no  business  to  attend  to,  and  they  made  no  acquaint- 
ances, and,  after  the  usual  nine  days'  wonder  had 
elapsed,  no  one  thought  or  troubled  themselves  about 
these  two  men. 

The  scene  about  to  be  related  took  place  a  week 
previous  to  the  night  when  Leslie  Wyndham  and  his 
son  had  the  conversation  before  recorded. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  41 

The  two  gentlemen,  Philip  Marton  and  Thomas 
Castle,  sat  in  the  back  extension-room,  on  the  parlor 
floor  of  the  haunted  house.  A  cheerful  fire  burned  in 
the  grate,  and  on  the  small  table  by  which  they  sat, 
facing  each  other,  and  smoking,  was  a  decanter  and 
two  glasses.  A  small  diagram  was  also  on  it  before 
Marton. 

It  was  observable  that  Castle  drank  copiously  of  the 
wine,  while  his  companion  scarcely  touched  his  glass. 

They  were  engaged  in  conversation. 

"  It  was  a  lucky  day  for  you  when  you  met  me," 
Marton  was  saying. 

"  And  for  you,  too,"  retorted  Castle 

"  Well,  never  mind  about  that,"  returned  the  other. 
"  You  have  your  revenge  to  satisfy,  and  I  —  well,  I 
want  money.  This  sort  of  thing  is  getting  played  out. 
It 's  all  very  nice,  but  it  don't  pay,  and  consequently 
can't  last  long  now.  So  we  must  to  work  soon,  and 
the  sooner  the  better." 

"  But  the  danger,"  whispered  the  other,  uneasily. 

"  What  a  cowardly  chicken  you  are ! "  exclaimed 
Marton,  in  undisguised  contempt.  "  The  danger  ? 
Why,  man,  what  do  you  mean?  What  danger? 
There  is  absolutely  none  at  all !  Just  leave  all  that 
to  me.  Do  as  I  bid  you,  and  everything  will  come 
out  all  right.  Depend  upon  me,  and  do  as  I  tell  you 
—  nothing  more  or  less." 

"  I  do  leave  it  all  to  you,  Marton ;  you  know  I  do. 
You  beat  the  devil  at  plotting,  and  I  confess  there  are 
times  when  I  wonder  whether  you  really  are  a  man  — " 

"  Or  fiend,"  interrupted  the  other.  "  Thank  you," 
he  continued,  sarcastically ;  "  you  are  complimentary — 
4* 


42  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

very  complimentary,  indeed.  But  so  long  as  you  have 
such  a  high  opinion  of  me,  and  consent  to  follow  my 
directions,  why,  all  right." 

"You  know  well  enough,  Philip  Marton,  that  I 
would  do  anything  to  have  my  revenge,  without  — " 

"  Risking  your  own  safety." 

"Revenge!  Revenge!  Revenge!  By  day  I  think 
of  it,  and  night  after  night  my  dreams  are  all  of 
vengeance !  Revenge  on  the  man  who  blasted  my 
happiness,  and  ruined  my  life,  and  made  me  the  des- 
picable wretch  that  I  am." 

"And  I  am  showing  you  the  means  by  which  you 
can  satisfy  your  passion ;  I  am  opening  a  path  for  you. 
And  not  only  that  —  not  only  do  you  satisfy  your  thirst 
for  vengeance,  but  you  also  get  remunerated  for  all  that 
you  have  suffered.  Now,  first,  as  to  the  divorce.  We 
have  seen  the  record  of  that.  He  did  not  obtain  it 
here ;  he  was  too  wise  to  try  that.  He  took  her  where 
a  divorce  could  be  procured  with  less  trouble,  and 
little,  if  any,  publicity.  Then  he  married  her  secretly ; 
I  feel  positive  of  that.  That  accounts  for  their  not 
living  together,  but  he  sees  her.  Wherever  the  devil 
she  is,  I  can't  find  out.  If  she  has  changed  as  much 
in  the  last  six  years  as  you  have,  Castle,  her  own  mo- 
ther, if  the  worthy  lady  was  living,  would  not  be  able 
to  recognize  her.  Being  his  wife,  then,  and  he  being 
rich  as  Croesus,  or  any  other  man,  at  his  death  she  will 
come  in  for  his  stamps,  etc." 

"  But  if  he  has  made  a  will  ?  " 

"  In  favor  of  the  other  one,  you  mean  ?  What  if 
he  has  ?  All  his  relatives  are  dead,  with  that  excep- 
tion. Now  suppose,  for  instance,  the  other  one  — " 

"  You  don't  mean  — " 


THE    WORLD  TO   BLAME.  43 

"  Never  mind  what  I  mean.  Leave  me  to  fix  all 
that.  Philip  Marton  never  fails  in  his  plans.  Once 
she  inherits  his  wealth,  we  can  easily  have  the  divorce 
set  aside,  and  then  we  are  all  right." 

"  But  the  danger." 

"  Still  harping  on  the  same  old  thing  !  I  tell  you 
there  is  none  at  all.  Why,  man,  I  have  seen  the  same 
case  on  trial,  and  what  was  the  result  ?  Why,  every- 
body said  he  was  right;  public  opinion  was  in  his  favor: 
the  press  sustained  him,  and  he  came  off  quite  a  hero  ! " 

He  laughed  as  he  thought  of  that  scene.  He  saw 
it  all  before  him.  The  court-room  was  the  theater 
where  the  comedy  was  played.  He  saw  all  the  actors, 
"  in  his  mind's  eye,  Horatio  :  "  the  lawyers,  the  audi- 
ence, the  judge,  jury,  and  the  poor,  persecuted,  inno- 
cent mur — !  What  a  mockery  of  justice  that  was  ! 

It  was  no  wonder  that  he  laughed  ;  it  was  no  wonder 
that  he  did  not  fear  after  witnessing  that  exhibition  of 
a  burlesque  on  law  and  justice !  Such  a  sight  was  not 
calculated  to  inspire  one  with  awe  —  the  sight  of  a 
mean,  cowardly,  acknowledged  assassin,  being  declared 
innocent ! 

And  Castle  could  not  but  laugh  too,  after  Marten's 
recital  of  those  facts. 

"  I  am  satisfied,"  he  said,  "  you  are  right,  Marton." 

"  Certainly  I  am.  You  see  I  have  made  myself  ac- 
quainted with  all  these  things.  Philip  Marton  does 
not  act  unless  he  knows  what  he  is  doing.  I  think  as 
much  of  myself  as  you  positively  can  of  yourself,  and 
I  am  not  so  foolish  as  to  put  my  precious  head  in  the 
lion's  mouth  recklessly!  Not  much!  You  should 
know  that  by  this  time." 


44  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

WHAT   THE   MORNING   BROUGHT. 

IT  was  very  late  when  Frederick  Wyndham  reached 
his  home,  and  opening  the  front  door  with  his 
latch  key,  ascended  the  stairs  to  his  apartment,  on  the 
third  floor. 

Coming  from  the  cold  winter's  night  into  the  warmth 
of  the  heated  house  sent  a  thrill  of  pleasure  through 
him. 

Remembering  his  conversation  with  the  father  who 
loved  him  so  well,  and  whom  he  also  loved,  Frederick 
had  not  spent  the  night  in  drinking  and  gambling. 
He  had  pledged  himself  to  renounce  these  evils  for- 
ever ;  and,  as  a  beginning,  he  had  gone  to  the  home 
of  the  rich  and  beautiful  girl  who  loved  him  with  all 
the  intensity  of  her  young  heart,  and  who  was  dearer 
to  him  than  all  the  world  beside. 

How  beautiful  and  noble  and  pure  she  was  in  com- 
parison with  the  women  whom  he  met  in  his  de- 
baucheries, when  rendered  semi-unconscious  by  the 
arch-fiend,  Drink  ! 

He  could  not  but  feel  ashamed  of  himself  in  her 
presence ;  he  could  not  but  wonder  that  one  so  pure 
loved  him,  and  he  so  unworthy  of  her  heart's  best 
emotions. 

The  words  of  his  father  had  taken  root  in  his 
mind  before.  He  had  been  severing,  as  far  as  it  was 
possible,  his  connection  with  the  impure  beings  who 
had  been  the  companions  of  his  disgraceful  orgies. 


THE  WOKLD  TO  BLAME.  45 

This  was  the  engagement  which  could  not  be  broken, 
and  of  which  he  had  spoken  to  his  father. 

The  young  man  was  pure  and  noble,  and  generous 
by  nature.  It  was  his  evil  companionship  which  had 
led  him  astray,  and  kept  concealed  the  inherent  good- 
ness of  his  being.  When  his  father  first  began  talk- 
ing to  him  of  the  course  of  life  he  had  been  leading, 
his  senses  and  his  finer  feelings  began  to  awake  and 
struggle  to  free  themselves  from  the  unworthy  chains 
which  had  kept  them  so  long  in  submission. 

It  was  slow,  up-hill  work,  and  done  in  secret.  No 
one  knew  of  the  terrible  battle  that  had  been  going  on 
within  his  breast,  between  passion  and  vice  and  virtue. 
Virtue  at  last  had  triumphed. 

He  passed  the  evening  in  the  company  of  the  girl- 
woman  who  loved  him,  and  who  had  all  along  excused 
his  imprudencies  in  secret,  and  laid  their  blame  to  the 
follies  and  snares  which  beset  every  young  man's  foot- 
steps in  a  great  city. 

His  father  did  not  dream  of  his  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  this  girl ;  did  not  know  of  the  struggle 
which  had  waged  in  his  breast.  He  only  heard  the 
evil  reports,  and  Frederick  said  naught  in  contradic- 
tion of  them.  He  was  waiting  for  a  certain  event  to 
happen  before  he  made  an  announcement  to  his  father, 
which  he  knew  would  give  him  joy  and  comfort,  and 
make  him  happy  as  regarded  his  son's  future. 

The  Dervilles  were  old  friends  of  Leslie  Wyndham's, 
and  Frederick  had  visited  there  very  often ;  but  the 
idea  that  May  Derville  was  to  be  his  son's  wife  had 
never  occurred  to  him.  He  had  never  thought  of  the 
possibility  of  a  match  being  made  between  the  two, 


46  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

though  nothing  would  have  pleased  him  more  than  to 
have  seen  his  son  married  and  settled  in  life. 

May  Derville  was  a  girl  in  years,  but  a  woman  in 
thought  and  feeling.  She  had  knowledge  far  beyond 
her  age.  She  was  the  personification  of  a  true  woman, 
and,  though  she  had  never  confessed  but  to  herself,  her 
love  for  Frederick  Wyndham,  the  young  man  had  read 
her  secret.  Her  heart  spoke  in  the  language  of  her 
soft,  pitying  eyes. 

That  night  Frederick  had  confessed  his  love  to  her. 
He  had  told  her  all :  his  past  life,  hiding  nothing,  pal- 
liating nothing,  and  his  resolves  for  the  future.  And 
she  had  accepted  him,  and  they  were  engaged. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  a  light  heart,  beating  with 
joy  and  happiness,  that  Frederick  Wyndham  wended 
his  homeward  way. 

The  light  was  out  in  the  hall,  but  he  knew  his  way 
up  to  his  rooms,  as  well  in  the  darkness  as  in  the 
day. 

As  he  passed  his  father's  room,  he  saw  that  the  gas, 
as  was  Leslie  Wyndham's  custom,  was  burning  low  in 
one  corner,  and  the  door  was  slightly  ajar. 

He  had  ascended  the  stairs  very  lightly,  making  as 
little  noise  as  possible,  but  as  he  passed  the  door,  his 
father  called  out : 

"  Is  that  you,  Frederick  ?  "  and  he  answered, 

"  Yes,  sir.     Good-night." 

"  I  would  like  to  be  awoke  early,  Frederick." 

"  All  right,  sir.     Good-night;  good-night." 

Then  he  went  up  to  his  own  apartments. 

The  little  clock  in  his  room  struck  six,  as  he  awoke. 
It  mattered  not  how  late  he  retired,  precisely  at  six  — 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  47 

not  from  choice,  but  habit  —  sleep  left  him.  He  did 
not  usually  arise,  however,  but  lay  awake  iu  bed  read- 
ing. 

It  was  a  dull,  cloudy  morning,  and  the  sky  betokened 
a  coming  snow-storm. 

Recollecting  the  wish  his  father  had  expressed  to 
him  of  being  awoke  early,  he  jumped  out  of  the  com- 
fortable bed,  and,  without  dressing  himself,  proceeded 
down  the  sta?  >  in  his  night-gown. 

There  is  nothing  so  hard  on  a  cold  winter's  morning 
as  getting  out  of  bed. 

Dressing  and  undressing  are  two  plagues  in  cold 
weather. 

Leslie  Wyndham  slept  in  the  hall-room,  using  the 
large  one  as  his  sanctum  sanctorum.  A  safe  was  in. 
this  large  room,  in  which  he  kept  his  papers. 

Frederick  did  not  notice  that  the  gas,  which  had 
been  burning  when  he  came  in,  was  now  out. 

The  room  was  very  dark,  for  the  inside  blinds  were 
closed  and  barred,  so  that  the  early  light  of  the  morn- 
ing could  not  penetrate  into  the  room. 

Frederick  passed  through  the  sanctum,  but  as  he 
entered  the  hall-room,  it  felt  to  him  as  if  something 
sticky  was  on  his  feet. 

He  advanced  a  few  steps  toward  the  bed,  and  was 
about  to  stretch  forth  his  hand  to  touch  his  father,  when 
he  stumbled  and  fell  over  something  cold. 

A  chill  went  through  his  frame,  and  acting  on  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  he  hastily  arose,  trembling 
with  fear,  and  opening  the  blind,  let  the  dull  morning 
light  into  the  room. 

The  sight  that  met  his  eyes,  and  thrilled  him  through 


48  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

and  through  with  horror,  haunted  him  night  and  day 
while  life  lasted. 

It  were  impossible  to  describe  what  he  felt  at  that 
moment ;  but,  with  a  shrill  shriek,  he  rushed  down  the 
stairs  like  a  madman,  and  regardless  of  the  fact  that 
he  was  in  undress,  opened  the  front  door,  and,  standing 
on  the  cold  steps,  upon  which  the  snow-flakes  had  began 
to  fall,  in  his  bloody  feet  and  night  gown,  raised  his 
hands,  which  were  also  covered  with  blood,  and  shouted 
wildly : 

"MUEDEE!  MUEDEE!  POLICE!  POLICE!" 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AFTEE   THE   MURDEE. 

rPHE  murder  of  Leslie  Wyndham  created  great  ex- 
J-  citement,  because  of  its  mysterious  nature. 

The  news  spread  like  wildfire.  The  newspapers  put 
out  bulletins,  and  the  sole  topic  of  conversation  for  the 
time  being  was  of  Leslie  Wyndham. 

Who  was  guilty?  His  son  had  been  the  last  one 
known  to  enter  the  house;  he  had  bade  his  father 
good-night,  and  been  answered.  The  servants  had  all 
retired,  and  though  suspicion  for  a  time  rested  on  one 
of  them  —  a  man  —  it  was  quickly  cleared  up,  and  the 
mystery  still  remained  unravelled. 

What  was  the  motive  ?  Robbery  ?  The  safe  was 
open,  and  the  papers  had  been  handled  and  tossed 


THEWORLDTOBLAME.  49 

about  recklessly,  but  no  money  had  apparently  been 
taken,  for  there  was  money  in  it.  Was  it  likely  that 
robbers  would  look  at  the  papers  and  not  take  the 
gold  that  was  before  their  eyes  ?  No !  that  was  im- 
possible ! 

And  where  are  we  safe,  if  not  in  our  own  houses  ? 
it  was  asked.  If  a  man  like  Leslie  Wyndham  could 
be  murdered  in  his  own  house,  where  others  were  sleep- 
ing, and  the  murderer  escape  without  leaving  a  trace 
behind  him  by  which  he  could  be  discovered,  who 
could  call  their  lives  their  own  ? 

No  sound  had  been  heard  during  the  night  by  any 
of  the  servants,  or  the  murdered  man's  son,  who  slept 
directly  above  him.  They  all  swore  positively  to  this  j 
and  yet  there  were  signs  and  evidences  of  a  severe  and 
bloody  struggle  having  taken  place.  Must  not  the 
murderer's  clothes  have  become  stained  with  the  blood 
of  his  victim? 

The  mystery  was  as  impenetrable  to  mortal  eyes  as 
the  heavens. 

The  murderer  had  done  his  work  well,  whoever  he 
was.  He  had  come  and  done  his  dastardly  deed  silently, 
and  silently  departed.  The  secret  was  locked  up  in 
his  own  breast. 

Was  there  more  than  one !  A  heavy  dufy  fell  on 
the  police  to  discover  the  assassin  or  assassins.  The 
people  looked  to  them  for  a  solution  of  the  mystery 
that  veiled  this  crime. 

They  worked   diligently   and   incessantly.     Detec- 
tives and  policemen  took  possession  of  the  house,  and 
no  one  was  allowed  to  enter  or  leave  it,  except  Fred- 
erick and  the  newspaper  reporters. 
5  D 


50  THE   WORLD   TO   BLAME. 

In  the  meantime,  while  all  this  was  taking  place, 
might  not  the  murderer  have  been  laughing  at  the 
officers  of  the  law,  and  effected  his  escape?  Whither 
had  he  fled  ?  It  was  not  likely  that  he  would  remain 
in  the  same  city  where  his  crime  had  been  committed. 
These  were  questions  which  no  one  could  answer. 

The  coroner's  inquest  was  held.  It  developed 
nothing  new — nothing  that  was  unknown.  There 
was  no  clue  to  the  assassin  or  his  motive.  The  police 
were  stimulated  by  the  offer  of  large  rewards;  but 
they  had  nothing  to  work  on.  The  mystery  remained 
as  black  as  evfer.  Who  would  dissolve  it  ? 

And  so  Leslie  Wyndham  was  buried.  The  funeral 
was  very  large ;  but  Frederick  was  not  present. 

The  traditional  nine  days  elapsed,  and  the  specula- 
tion in  regard  to  the  mystery  ceased.  There  were  new 
and  important  events  to  engross  public  attention. 

In  a  large  city  events  which  once  caused  great  ex- 
citement are  soon  and  easily  forgotten.  There  is  always 
something  new  and  strange  taking  place.  Event  fol- 
lows event  with  unceasing  rapidity.  All  receive  due 
attention,  and  then  fall  back  to  make  way  for  some- 
thing new. 

And  so,  for  a  while,  Leslie  Wyndham  and  the  mys- 
tery of  his  death  ceased  to  be  talked  of. 

Where,  all  this  time,  was  Frederick  Wyndham  ? 

The  shock  which  his  system  had  suffered  on  that 
eventful  morning,  when  he  had  tripped  over  the  dead 
body  of  his  father,  had  thrown  him  upon  a  bed  of 
sickness. 

By  a  singular  fatality  he  had  been  conveyed  to  the 
residence  of  Mr.  Derville,  and  here  poor  May  had 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  61 

f hi tli fully  tended  to  him  all  through  the  fever  and 
delirium  which  ensued. 

Thoughts  of  his  father  were  ever  uppermost  in  his 
mind,  and  in  his  delirium  he  moaned  wildly,  "Father, 
oh,  father !  "  He  begged  to  be  forgiven  for  the  suffer- 
ing he  had  caused  the  dead,  and  he  recounted,  with  a 
horrible  minuteness,  the  discovery  of  the  murder. 

While  Leslie  Wyndham  was  being  conveyed  to  his 
last  resting-place,  his  son  was  tossing  wildly  on  his 
couch,  from  side  to  side,  moaning  and  crying,  "  Father ! 
oh,  father,  forgive  me,  forgive  me !  I  did  not  mean 
to  pain  you,  for  I  loved  you  —  oh  !  I  loved  you !  " 

Then  he  would  laugh  —  a  shrill,  piercing  laugh  that 
made  the  blood  curdle  in  the  veins  of  those  who  heard 
it  —  and  starting  up  in  his  bed  would  point  with  his 
finger,  and  cry, 

"  I  see  him  !     I  see  him  !     Oh,  he  is  killing  him  ! 
Murder!  murder!  Police!  police!"  and  fall  back  ex- 
hausted. 
******* 

"Yes;  she's  a  proud,  stuck-up  thing." 

"  So  homely  and  conceited,  too." 

"  She 's  no  better  than  she  ought  to  be,  either." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  haven't  you  heard?" 

"  Xo." 

"  What !  you  don't  know  ?  " 

"  I  really  don't.     What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  nothing!  I  thought  you  knew;  but  never 
mind." 

This  conversation  was  repeated,  with  additions,  to 
some  one  else.  Some  one  else  added  to  it,  and  told  her 


52  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

particular  friend,  who,  enlarging  and  magnifying  its 
importance,  told  her  particular  friend.  And  so,  from 
a  little  spiteful  conversation,  a  vile  and  horrible  story 
was  concocted.  No  one  knew  anything  about  it,  ex- 
cept "  They  say,"  that  convenient  subterfuge  for  scan- 
dal-mongers. But  the  effect  was  the  same.  A  fair 
woman's  name  was  blasted  forever,  and  she  was  made 
to  feel  that  life  was  a  curse,  that  she  was  shunned  and 
despised,  until,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  she  ended  her 
existence. 

From  a  little  acorn  springs  the  giant  oak. 

Somebody  made  a  remark  in  regard  to  Leslie  Wynd- 
ham's  murder.  It  went  around  in  whispers,  as  though 
the  whisperers  were  aware  of  the  lie  they  were  utter- 
ing, gradually  gaining  ground  and  credence. 

It  was  a  terrible  thing  —  a  terrible  charge.  But  by 
a  certain  class  of  persons  it  was  eagerly  seized,  com- 
mented upon  and  believed. 

We  may  divide  the  world  into  two  great  classes  — 
the  rich  and  the  poor. 

Among  the  poor,  so  far  as  regards  themselves,  we 
will  find  more  charity,  more  brotherly  love,  and  more 
of  the  helping  hand.  But  between  them  and  the  rich 
there  is  an  indefinable  hatred. 

Let  a  rich  man,  or  a  rich  man's  son,  be  accused  of 
any  crime,  how  quick  the  poor  say,  with  a  sneer : 

"  There  is  your  rich  man,  your  good  man ;  that 's 
the  kind  of  men  they  are." 

It  was  this  class  who  hastened  to  believe  and  repeat 
the  horrible  rumor  respecting  Leslie  Wyndham's  mur- 
der, while,  at  the  same  time,  they  shrugged  their 
shoulders,  and  said : 


THE   WORLD  TO   BLAME.  53 

"  He  has  money,  though.  It  would  be  different 
with  me." 

Now  there  is  nothing  much  in  these  words  them- 
selves, yet  when  uttered  by  the  poor  in  certain  cases, 
they  conceal  a  mint  of  hidden  meaning. 

This  feeling  between  the  rich  and  poor  is,  in  part, 
jealousy  ;  yet  the  true  cause  of  it  is  because  the  rich, 
(we  speak  of  rich  and  poor  as  a  class,  not  individually) 
instead  of  helping  the  poor,  look  down  upon  the  com- 
mon laborer  with  scorn,  forgetting  that  without  him 
they  could  not  have  their  grand  brown  stone  fronts 
and  palaces.  They  do  not  think  what  they  owe  to  this 
man ;  they  forget  that  every  man  is  dependent  on  his 
fellow-man.  The  true  cause  of  this  feeling  is  because 
the  rich  crush  the  poor.  How,  then,  can  there  be  any 
brotherly  feeling  between  them  ? 

Labor  is  dependent  on  capital ;  but  capital  is  also 
dependent  on  labor.  Neither  should  belittle  or  tyran- 
nize the  other. 

But,  unfortunately,  as  the  Elizabethan  era  was  the 
age  of  literature,  the  nineteenth  century  is  more  par- 
ticularly the  age  of  money-making.  Everything  bends 
the  knee  before  the  shrine  of  Mammon. 

The  lawyer,  the  doctor,  the  laborer,  the  business  man, 
(again  speaking  of  a  class,  and  not  of  an  individual) 
all  pursue  their  different  avocations.  And  this  great 
object  for  which  they  work,  and  work,  and  labor,  and 
toil,  and  fret,  and  worry,  and  gamble,  and  cheat,  and 
rob,  and  lie,  with  such  commendable,  to  be  praised 
industry  —  this  great  object,  after  all,  sifted  down, 
amounts  to  —  what?  Not  a  desire  to  benefit  their 
fellow-men,  but  to  what  Washington  Irving  has  very 
6* 


54  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

aptly  and  expressively  termed  the  "almighty  dol- 
lar!" 

Asking  the  reader's  pardon  for  this  digression,  we 
continue : 

It  must  be  remembered  that  neither  Mr.  Derville  or 
Frederick  knew  aught,  or  heard  aught,  of  these  rumors. 
In  fact,  the  latter  was  still  confined  to  his  room,  with 
gentle  May  for  his  nurse,  and  neither  of  them  saw 
any  of  the  newspapers. 

One  fine  morning,  not  quite  a  week  after  this  rumor 
began  to  spread,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Derville  were  sitting 
alone  at  breakfast,  leisurely  sipping  their  coffee,  when, 
suddenly,  he  uttered  an  exclamation  of  mingled  horror 
and  surprise,  and,  letting  the  paper  he  was  reading  fall 
from  his  hands,  cried,  with  a  face  as  pale  as  death  — 

"  It  is  a  lie  !  a  lie !  a  wicked,  soulless  lie  ?  " 

'Why,  what  is  the  matter?"  exclaimed  his  wife, 
alarmed. 

"See  there!"  he  said,  vehemently,  and  pointing  to 
the  paper. 

She  took  it  up  and  read  in  large  letters  : 

LESLIE    WYNDHAM'S    ASSASSIN!! 

DISCOVERY    OF   THE     MURDERER! 
A  TERRIBLE  DENOUEMENT  ! 

Full  Particulars  of  the  Murder,  and  How  it  was  Committed  I 

She  stopped,  with  a  feeling  of  coming  evil  at  her 
heart. 

Her  husband  sat  perfectly  motionless,  his  face  as 
white  as  marble,  and  his  teeth  clenched  tightly  to- 
gether. 

She  continued  reading : 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  55 

"  A  rumor  has  been  going  round  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  during  the  last  few  days,  and  gaining  strength 
and  ground,  in  regard  to  this  mysterious  tragedy, 
which  has,  thus  far,  puzzled  and  baffled  all  the  eiforts 
of  the  authorities  to  discover  any  trace  of  its  perpe- 
trators." 

And  then  it  went  on  to  narrate  the  full  particulars. 

The  writer  pretended  to  know  all  about  the  tragedy. 
He  told  how  the  assassin  had  entered  the  house,  and 
detailed,  with  a  horrible  minuteness,  all  his  movements 
before  and  after  perpetrating  the  crime,  and  concluded 
with  a  terrible  charge  that  sent  all  the  color  from  Mrs. 
Derville's  face,  and  made  her  tremble  with  anger. 

The  article  came  out  boldly,  and  accused  Frederick 
Wyndham  of  being  a  parricide ! 

"  It  is  false  !  utterly  false,  Richard  !"  she  cried,  "  and 
the  writer  knows  it,  too.  Oh,  how  can  they  publish 
such  a  wicked  lie !  Richard,  Richard  !  it  is  not  so  ! 
it  is  not  so !  " 

"  Be  calm,  Mary,  be  calm.  It  is  too  late  to  remedy 
it  now.  It  is  in  print,  and  by  this  time  all  New  York 
knows  it.  We  can  do  nothing  at  present.  It  is  a 
sensation,  got  up  to  sell  the  paper,  utterly  untrue,  and 
its  author  shall  suffer  for  it !  " 

"  But  what  shall  we  do,  Richard  !  what  shall  we  do  ? 
Oh,  it  is  terrible  —  infamous  !  " 

"  Terrible,  indeed  !  And  the  man  who  could  write 
such  an  article,  without  a  particle  of  proof,  is  a  villain, 
for  whom  hanging  is  too  good.  He  shall  be  attended 
to :  never  fear.  •  But  we  must  not  let  them  see  the 
paper ;  he  must  know  nothing  of  it." 

By  the  next  morning  all  $ew  York  had  perused 


56  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

the  horrible  narrative.  It  was  copied  into  other 
papers,  and  its  author  denounced  by  them  all. 

There  were  cries  of  shame  !  terrible !  wicked  !  dis- 
graceful !  and  threats  of  horsewhipping,  and  other 
summary  proceedings.  And  yet  many  of  those  who 
were  loudest  in  their  denunciations  secretly  believed  it 
to  be  true. 

What  if  it  was  unnatural  ?  It  was  not  impossible. 
Such  things  had  happened  more  than  once.  And 
then  he  was  known  to  be  a  wild,  dissipated  young 
man. 

But  the  next  issue  of  the  paper  increased  the  excite- 
ment to  a  fearful  degree. 

"  We  have  been  denounced  and  threatened  on  all 
sides,"  it  said,  "  but  we  still  stick  to  the  truth,  and 
repeat  what  we  have  said.  Leslie  Wyndham  was 
murdered  by  his  son.  We  are  fully  aware  of  the 
nature  and  horribleness  of  the  charge  we  make;  we 
would  wish  it  possible  that  we  were  mistaken.  But 
in  the  face  of  the  facts,  and  after  due  consideration,  we 
were  compelled  to  come  out  boldly  with  the  accusation, 
and  we  can  prove  it." 

Here  followed  an  account  of  Frederick  Wyndhara's 
dissipated  life,  his  father's  remonstrances,  the  quarrels 
between  the  two  —  all  tending  to  show  the  young  man 
to  be  utterly  unprincipled.  The  motive  alleged  for 
the  crime  was  —  money  !  The  safe  had  been  searched 
and  ransacked  for  Leslie  Wyndham's  will,  which  his 
son  knew  almost  the  same  as  disinherited  him.  In 
the  event  of  the  murdered  man  dying  intestate,  his 
vast  estate  would  descend  to  his  only  heir-at-law  —  his 
son.  Was  not  the  motive  sufficient. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  57 

The  whole  story  was  narrated  coolly  and  calmly, 
supported  by  facts  and  circumstances. 

The  article  concluded : 

"  The  police  have  been  negligent  and  careless  in 
their  investigation.  Let  them  look  in  the  second 
bureau-drawer  in  the  parricide's  room,  far  back,  and 
see  what  they  find  wrapped  up  in  a  small  parcel  which 
lies  there." 

"  The  second  bureau-drawer  in  the  parricide's  room  !" 
No  one  had  thought  of  looking  there ;  but  long  before 
the  paper  was  out  on  the  news-stands,  the  drawer  was 
searched,  and  the  small  parcel  found. 

Carefully,  and  with  trembling  fingers,  it  was  opened. 
There  were  five  rolls  of  paper  wrapped  around  the 
article  inside  it. 

This  article  was  a  razor,  stained  and  clotted  with 
blood,  and  on  the  handle  was   engraved   the   name 
"  Frederick  Wyndham." 
*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

One  more  scene,  heartrending  in  the  extreme,  must 
be  recorded  before  the  conclusion  of  this  chapter. 

Mr.  Derville  had  been  thinking  over  that  article  in 
the  paper  for  some  time.  By  listening  attentively  he 
found  that  there  were  many  who  more  than  half  be- 
lieved the  preposterous  story. 

Pie  came  to  one  conclusion.  Frederick  must  leave 
the  city  until  the  furore  created  by  that  article  died 
out. 

On  the  very  morning  that  the  paper  came  out  re- 
iterating its  previous  story,  he  had  a  carriage  waiting 
at  his  house  door. 

Frederick  Wyndham  had  so  far  recovered  as  to  be 


58  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

able  to  walk  about  his  room.  He  had  not,  as  yet, 
ventured  to  go  into  the  street.  Happy,  delighted 
May  was  always  with  him  —  always  at  home. 

For  a  few  moments  after  Mr.  Derville  entered  the 
room,  the  conversation  was  about  —  well,  nothing. 

But  at  last  he  spoke  out. 

"  Frederick,  my  son,"  he  said,  kindly,  but  with  an 
air  of  determination,  "  I  have  a  carriage  waiting  at  the 
door  for  you.  You  must  leave  the  city  with  me  for  a 
few  days." 

"  Leave  the  city !  "  echoed  poor  May,  feeling  slightly 
alarmed. 

"Leave  the  city?"  repeated  Frederick.  "Why, 
what  do  you  mean  ?  What  for  ?  " 

"Don't  ask  me  any  questions,  for  God's  sake,  my 
son,  but  come.  Only  for  a  few  days.  Come,  come 
quick,  before  it  is  too  late." 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  entreaty.  The  young  man 
was  completely  mystified.  Poor  little  May  clung  to 
his  arm. 

At  this  instant  Mrs.  Derville  entered  hurriedly, 
evidently  in  great  agitation. 

"  O,  Richard,  it  is  too  late  !  too  late !  too  late !  "  she 
cried,  and  falling  on  her  knees,  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
husband's  lap. 

He  bowed  his  head  in  terrible  anguish. 

Two  policemen  entered.  One  closed  the  door,  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  it.  The  other  advanced,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"  Come,  my  man,"  he  said,  "  you  are  wanted.  Your 
carriage  is  too  late  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  the  young  man  said,  sternly. 
"  What  is  the  object  of  this  farce  ?  " 


THE  WOELD  TO  BLAME.  69 

"  I  am  not  here  to  answer  questions,"  was  the  reply. 
"  I  hope  you  '11  not  compel  us  to  use  force.  Best  come 
along  quietly." 

"  Frederick  !  Frederick  !  "  cried  May,  throwing 
her  slight  airy  form  between  the  two.  "  There  is  some 
mistake  —  some  terrible  mistake  here  !  " 

"  There  is  no  mistake,  Miss.  I  wish  there  was  —  I 
hope  there  is,"  the  officer  said,  kindly,  touched  in  spite 
of  himself  by  the  sight  of  her  pale,  agonized  face,  "  for 
your  sake  and  his.  I  must  perform  my  duty.  Young 
man,  you  must  come  with  me  ! " 

Frederick  Wyndham  was  struck  dumb  with  astonish- 
ment ;  he  could  not  speak. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Derville  were  silent. 

"Oh!  no!  no!  no!"  cried  poor  May,  throwing 
her  arms  around  him  as  if  to  hold  him  fast.  "  You 
shall  not  take  him.  He  shall  not  go.  Go  away.  Go 
away.  Oh !  say  you  will  let  him  be  in  peace.  You 
will  kill  him.  What  has  he  done  ?  What  has  he 
done?" 

"  He  is  charged  with  the  murder  of  Leslie  Wynd- 
ham, his  father." 

The  words  fell  upon  their  ears  like  the  knell  of  doom. 
A  groan  escaped  Derville's  lips;  his  wife  shrieked. 

"  It  is  not  true !  It  is  not  true  !  O  God !  it  is  not 
true !  Frederick,  Frederick,  it  is  not  true ! 

"  It  is  a  lie  —  a  base  lie,"  he  murmured,  hoarsely. 

"Thank "     The  arms  slipped  from  his  body, 

and  the  poor  girl  sank  unconscious  to  the  floor. 
******* 

The  same  carriage  which  had  been  provided  to  take 
him  out  of  the  city  conveyed  Frederick  Wyndham  to 
the  Tombs. 


60  THE   WOELD  TO   BLAME.     . 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN  THE  TOMBS. 

rTiriE  effect  of  the  news  of  Leslie  Wyndham's  terrible 
-JL  end  on  Mary  Farly  can  better  be  imagined  than 
described.  She  knew  him  as  a  man  among  men ;  as 
one  who  had  been  her  steadfast  friend  in  her  hour  of 
need;  who  had  saved  her,  time  and  time  again,  from 
a  husband's  drunken  fury;  as  one  who  loved  her, 
whom  she  revered,  and  yet  was  separated  from  by  a 
cruel  fate.  To  her  he  was  pure,  good,  honest,  and 
noble ;  one  of  those  men  to  whom  the  weak  almost 
instinctively  look  up  for  protection. 

It  was  a  great  blow,  also,  to  the  Smithsons,  the  kind 
friends  whom  Leslie  Wyndham  had  provided  for  her. 
Knowing  her  as  they  did,  they  could  not  but  respect 
her  grief. 

She  would  fain  have  gone  and  looked  upon  his  loved 
face  for  the  last  time,  ere  he  was  placed  in  the  narrow 
home  that  awaits  us  all,  forever.  But  she  could  not. 
The  stern  and  cruel  laws  of  society  and  propriety  for- 
bade it.  What  would  she,  a  stranger,  want  among 
the  mourners  for  the  dead  ? 

She  shrank  from  exposing  her  sad  history  to  the 
gaze  of  a  cold  world ;  cold,  while  commiserating  with 
that  kind  of  lofty  pity  that  stings  the  proud  soul  to  the 
quick. 

Yes ;  she  was  proud.  What  was  born  in  her  not  all 
the  tortures  of  the  damned  could  have  extinguished. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  61 

The  poor,  the  miserable,  are  proud,  as  well  as  the-  rich ; 
and  that  kind  of  pity  which  the  rich  oft  express  for 
the  poor  when  they  read  of  the  end  of  some  sad  his- 
tory, only  serves  to  more  embitter  the  hatred  existing 
between  the  two  classes.  Not  that  Mary  Farly's  was 
that  cursed  lofty  and  foolish  pride  we  so  often  meet 
with.  By  no  means.  She  did  not  imagine  or  consider 
herself  as  far  superior  to  all  other  people ;  gold  was  not 
her  standard,  but  education  ;  she  judged  by  the  beauty 
and  nobility  of  the  soul,  not  by  the  face  and  clothes. 

Mr.  Smithson  went  to  attend  to  the  funeral  rites  of 
his  old  friend.  He  was  well  known  as  Leslie  Wynd- 
ham's  most  intimate  and  esteemed  friend,  and,  by  com- 
mon consent,  he  took  charge  of  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments for  the  funeral.  So  that  he  remained  in  town, 
leaving  his  family  and  Mary  Farly  to  await  his  return, 
the  latter  in  a  state  of  nervous  anxiety  which  words 
cannot  express. 

It  was  on  the  very  day  that  Frederick  Wyndham 
was  arrested  that  he  returned  to  his  home. 

To  say  that  they  were  astonished  and  horrified  at 
the  news  he  brought  would  be  but  faintly  to  express 
their  feelings. 

Mary  Farly  did  not  exhibit  a  trace  of  the  emotion 
she  felt ;  but  she  had  immediately  made  up  her  mind 
as  to  the  course  she  should  pursue. 

She  spoke  calmly  when  she  asked  : 

"  And  do  you  believe  him  guilty,  Mr.  Smithson  ?  " 

"  No,  never  !  It  is  utterly  preposterous,"  he  replied. 
"  The  idea  was  first  started  by  an  obscure  paper,  I  know 
not  with  what  motive,  more  than  a  week  ago.  The 
article  was  severely  condemned,  but  the  paper  continued 


62  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

to  accuse  the  young  man  of  being  a  parricide.  The 
consequence  is  that  he  has  been  arrested.  The  par- 
ticulars are  very  contradictory  at  present,  and  the 
greatest  excitement  prevails.  The  evening  papers  say 
that  the  proof  against  him  appears  to  be  very  conclu- 
sive. It  is  claimed  that  a  bloody  razor,  bearing  his 
name,  has  been  found  in  his  drawer.  I  have  not 
heard  of  any  other  evidence  against  him,  but  I  am 
positive  that  he  is  innocent.  It  is  incredible.  In  the 
morning  I  shall  go  to  town  early  and  see  what  I  can 
do.  I  shall,  therefore,  in  all  probability  not  return." 

"  I  shall  go  with  you,"  Mary  Farly  said,  quietly. 

"  You  ?  " 

"  I.  Do  not  endeavor  to  persuade  me  to  alter  my 
determination.  Please  do  not  oppose  me.  You  know 
what  I  owe  to  the  dead." 

Her  voice  trembled  slightly  here,  and  for  a  moment 
her  eyes  were  blinded  by  her  tears,  and  she  could  not 
speak.  Then  she  continued  : 

"I  must  see  his  son  and  judge  for  myself  of  his 
innocence.  I  feel  that  he  is  not  guilty — and,  oh  !  shall 
I  sit  idle  here  in  a  turmoil  of  anxiety  and  expectation, 
while  his  son  is  in  danger?  You  smile;  you  think  I 
can  be  of  no  help.  Oh,  if  I  see  him,  if  I  but  hear 
him  say  that  he  is  innocent,  as  I  feel  he  is,  I  shall 
work,  work  to  save  him,  to  establish  his  innocence. 
Oh,  that  such  a  terrible  charge,  involving  life  and 
death  —  a  charge  which  is  certain  to  leave  a  stain  on 
an  innocent  being's  name  should  be  so  lightly  brought, 
should  be  made  public  on  such  slender  grounds !  I 
know  the  world.  Accuse  one  of  a  crime,  and  there  are 
always  those  who,  even  if  the  accused's  innocence  be 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  63 

established,  will  still  think  him  guilty.  Oh,  it  is  ter- 
rible !  horrible  !  His  son  —  his  son  a  murderer !  Oh, 
no  !  no !  no  !  it  is  impossible  !  He  was  noble,  he  was 
good,  just,  pure,  honest;  and  can  they  tell  me,  who 
knew  him  so  well,  that  such  seed  could  bear  poisonous 
fruit  ?  No !  no  !  He  is  innocent  —  I  feel  it ;  I  know 
it.  I  must  see  him  —  see  him  alone.  I  must,  if  need 
be,  tell  him  all  that  I  owe  to  his  —  his  father,  if  he  will 
not  listen  to  me  without  knowing  why  I  befriend  him. 
Then  do  not  oppose  my  wishes.  I  must  see  him." 

She  spoke  earnestly  —  from  her  heart. 

He  saw  that  she  meant  what  she  said,  and,  though 
he  would  rather  she  would  have  remained  where  she 
was,  after  her  earnest  words  he  could  not  oppose  her 
desire. 

He  knew  more  than  he  cared  to  tell.  He  was  aware 
of  the  dissipated  life  the  young  man  had  been  leading, 
and  he  knew  how  every  little  thing,  in  itself  amount- 
ing to  nothing,  would  be  perverted,  and  made  to  tell 
against  the  accused.  From  what  he  had  heard  during 
the  time  he  had  remained  in  the  city  he  felt  that  the 
evidence  against  Frederick  would  be  terrible. 

They  went  to  the  city  together  the  following  morning. 
What  she  felt,  what  she  suffered,  what  her  thoughts 
were,  during  that,  to  her,  long  ride,  only  God  and  her- 
self ever  knew.  She  did  not  once  speak. 

All  around  them  the  passengers  were  reading  the 
morning  papers,  and  speculating  as  to  his  innocence  or 
guilt.  The  excitement  which  prevailed  could  be  felt 
and  seen,  but  not  portrayed. 

At  last  the  journey  was  ended,  and  after  some  little 
trouble  and  necessary  delay,  they  entered  the  gloomy 


64  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

and  frowning  portals  of  that  dismal  building,  known 
as  the  Tombs,  which  so  many  have  entered,  never  to 
emerge  from  again  in  the  consciousness  of  liberty. 

Short  as  had  been  the  time  since  his  arrest,  through 
the  kindness  of  his  friends  and  the  warden,  the  prison- 
er's cell  had  been  fitted  up  comfortably  —  the  papers 
stated  "  luxuriously." 

He  was  seated  near  the  bed,  thinking,  when  the  two 
entered.  Though  he  was  very  pale  and  weak-looking, 
he  was  very  calm  and  self-possessed,  almost  unnaturally 
so.  In  fact  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  grasp  or  com- 
prehend the  full  nature  and  meaning  of  the  crime  with 
which  he  was  charged.  He  was  as  much  in  the  dark 
as  any  one  in  the  city ;  he  could  not  understand  his 
situation.  It  appeared  to  him  like  a  horrible  night- 
mare. 

He  arose  as  they  entered,  and  recognizing  Mr.  Smith- 
son,  extended  his  hand,  with  a  painful  smile,  saying : 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  and  thank  you  for  your  kind- 
ness. I  have  had  many  friends  call  to  see  me.  You 
see  they  have  made  me  as  comfortable  as  possible,  under 
the  circumstances." 

Mr.  Smithson  shook  his  hand  warmly,  and  said, 
cheerfully : 

"  It  pleases  me  to  see  that  you  are  so  calm,  and  that 
you  have  recovered  from  your  sickness.  Keep  up  a 
brave  heart,  my  boy.  It  is  all  a  terrible  mistake,  that 
will  soon  be  explained  satisfactorily.  There  are  friends 
outside  who  will  work  for  you.  Be  of  good  cheer,  and 
keep  firm ;  for,  remember,  you  are  innocent.  That 
knowledge  should  bear  you  up  against  all  the  malice 
of  your  enemies." 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  65 

Then,  after  a  little  desultory  conversation,  he  intro- 
duced Mary  Farly,  who,  standing  in  the  background, 
had  been  scrutinizing  Frederick's  appearance  closely. 

Upon  hearing  her  sad  history,  which  Mr.  Smithson 
considered  it  best  to  disclose  to  him,  and  her  determi- 
nation, the  poor  young  man  could  not  restrain  for  a 
Inoment  his  emotion,  and,  grasping  her  extended  hand, 
murmured  chokingly : 

"  God  bless  you  !  Oh,  this  is  horrible !  I  cannot 
understand  it  at  all !  I  am  innocent !  God  knows  I 
am  innocent !  This  is  terrible !  This  suspicion  will 
kill  me,  I  am  sure." 

"  Don't  give  way  so,  my  poor  boy,"  Mr.  Smithson 
said,  cheerfully.  "  We  all  know  you  are  innocent,  and 
we  will  prove  it.  Only  keep  up  a  brave  heart,  and  all 
will  go  well,  depend  upon  it.  Trust  in  God." 

Then,  saying  that  he  would  call  soon  again,  and  tell- 
ing Mary  to  meet  him  at  the Hotel,  he  bade  the 

young  man  good-by,  and  left  the  two  alone. 

For  some  minutes  after  his  departure  they  remained 
silent.  Then,  suddenly,  she  took  his  hand  in  hers, 
and  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  said : 

"  Tell  me  again  that  you  are  innocent !  " 

"  I  am  innocent ! "  he  exclaimed,  almost  proudly. 
"  Before  God  I  swear  that  I  am  innocent.  I  know  as 
much  about  it  as  you  do.  I  am  in  the  dark  —  totally 
in  the  dark  —  in  regard  to  this  terrible  accusation.  I 
cannot  yet  believe  that  it  is  a  reality.  Oh,  God  !  can 
you  doubt  me  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  a  thousand  times,  no  !  You  are  innocent; 
I  would  venture  my  existence  on  it.  Cheer  up,  oh  ! 
cheer  up,  and  trust  in  Him  who  seeth  even  the  little 

6*  E 


66  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

sparrow  fall.  Remember  that  you  have  friends  who 
would  die  for  you,  willingly.  It  is  all  a  mistake  —  a 
horrible  nightmare  that  will  soon  pass  over.  And 
now,  command  me;  tell  me,  is  there  anything  I  can 
do  for  you  ?  " 

"No — yes,"  he  answered,  after  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion, striving  to  conquer  his  emotion,  and  succeeding. 
"  You  are  a  woman.  I  place  implicit  faith  in  you, 
though  I  have  not  known  you  long,  for  I  feel  that 
you  are  my  friend.  You  have  loved,  you  have  suf- 
fered. There  is  one  who  loves  me,  one  whom  I  love,  for 
whom  I  feel  more  than  for  myself.  It  is  the  thought 
of  her  that  causes  me  to  suffer.  For  myself,  I  am 
innocent;  that  knowledge  it  is  which  makes  me  so 
calm,  and  keeps  my  spirits  up.  But  she  loves  me,  — 
I,  who  am  so  unworthy  of  such  a  pure,  self-sacrificing 
love.  She  will  suffer  for  me.  Oh,  God !  oh,  God ! 
May !  oh,  dear  May !  My  love !  my  love ! " 

He  stopped,  for  his  emotion  was  again  choking  him } 
but  presently  he  continued : 

"Go  to  her;  confront  her  as  only  a  woman  can. 
Tell  her  that  I  am  innocent,  that  all  is  right.  Cheer 
her,  support  her;  tell  her  that  I  think  of  her  ever; 
tell  her  that  I  beg  of  her  not  to  fret  or  worry ;  that  it 
is  better  I  shpuld  not  see  her.  It  would  unnerve 
and  weaken  me,  now  when  I  have  most  need  of  my 
strength.  Tell  her  that  night  and  day  I  pray  for  her ; 
that  her  image  is  always  before  my  eyes  to  instil  me 
with  hope  and  courage.  I  beg  of  her  not  to  suffer  for 
me ;  not  to  give  way  to  despair,  but  to  hope  for  the 
best.  Tell  her  how  calm  I  am.  You,  who  are  a 
woman  who  has  lived  and  suffered,  will  know  how  to 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  67 

comfort  her.  Stay;  I  will  give  you  a  few  lines  to 
her." 

He  sat  himself  down  and  wrote,  while  the  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes,  and  her  heart  went  out  to  him  in 
pity.  Then,  when  it  was  finished,  he  gave  it  to  her 
and  said : 

"  Remember  what  I  have  told  you.  And  now 
good-by ;  I  will  see  you  again.  Good-by,  and  may 
God  bless  you !  " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

TBIED   FOR   HIS    LIFE. 

fTlHE  feeling  against  Frederick  "Wyndham  was, 
-L  from  some  cause,  very  great  and  bitter.  The 
public  mind  had  been  excited  by  a  series  of  unpun- 
ished crimes,  and  the  public  tongue  clamored  for 
vengeance.  The  press,  that  mighty  agent  for  good  or 
evil,  even  those  papers  which  had  scouted  at  the  idea 
when  it  was  first  broached,  after  his  arrest,  all  de- 
nounced the  parricide,  as  they  called  him. 

Instead  of  keeping  strictly  to  their  duty,  which  is  to 
record  facts  only,  and  not  pronounce  verdicts,  all  the 
newspapers  commented  upon  "the  horrible  crime  which 
had  been  perpetrated  in  our  midst,"  and  called  the 
prisoner  the  assassin. 

The  law  presumes  all  persons  innocent  until  proved 
guilty ;  and  yet  Frederick  Wyndham  was  called  a 
murderer  before  his  trial.  The  newspapers  presumed 


68  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

him  guilty.  It  was  wrong,  very  wrong,  and  unjust  in 
them  to  influence  public  opinion  one  way  or  an- 
other. In  times  of  great  excitement  popular  opinion 
is  hastily  formed,  and,  as  a  general  rule,  always  wrong. 
It  is  only  when  time  has  been  given  the  public  mind 
to  ponder  and  reflect,  and  the  public  pulse  to  cool  and 
calm,  that  public  opinion  can  be  justly  formed;  and  it 
was  time  enough  for  the  press  to  comment  after  the 
question  of  the  prisoner's  guilt  or  innocence  was  de- 
termined by  law,  and  not  before. 

Where  life  or  death  hangs  in  the  balance  there 
should  be  no  prejudice,  no  prejudging.  The  lives 
that  have  been  blasted  forever,  and  the  injury  which 
has  been  done  through  the  habit  of  publicly  prejudging 
and  commenting  on  cases  before  they  have  been  tried, 
are  incalculable. 

The  press  of  a  free  country  like  the  United  States 
wields  great  power,  possesses  great  influence  and 
moulds  public  opinion.  How  important  is  it,  then^ 
that  they  should  not  swerve  one  iota  from  their  duty  ? 
How  important  is  it,  then,  that  they  should  not  judge 
of  a  fellow-being's  guilt  until  it  is  proved?  Is  the 
question  hard  to  answer?  Is  it  not  easy  to  perceive 
what  an  incalculable  amount  of  harm  and  wrong  they 
can  do? 

"Judge  not  lest  ye  be  judged." 

It  was  the  day  of  the  trial ;  for,  despite  the  hopes 
and  assurances  of  his  friends,  Frederick  Wyndham  had 
been  duly  indicted  for  the  greatest  crime  known  to  the 
law  —  wilful  murder. 

Men  fall  in  battle ;  men  die  every  day,  yet  nothing 
is  thought  of  it ;  but  at  the  mere  mention  of  the  word 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  69 

"murder,"  what  excitement  springs  up!  Why?  Be- 
cause it  involves  the  question  of  the  people's  safety. 

What  a  host  of  thoughts  and  reflections  that  simple 
word  conjures  up  !  How  terrible  its  significance ! 

The  court-room  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  extent  by 
a  miscellaneous  gathering.  It  was  not  a  very  large 
room  at  the  best.  Lawyers,  reporters,  and  judge  were 
there.  The  ablest  counsel  that  could  be  procured  had 
been  retained  in  the  prisoner's  behalf.  The  District 
Attorney  was  on  hand  to  look  after  the  case  for  the  peo- 
ple. It  would  be  a  great  triumph  for  him,  if  he  woii 
the  case.  He  was  a  man  new  to  his  office,  young  and 
able,  and  this  was  his  first  great  case.  What  was  it  to 
him  that  a  man  was  on  trial  for  his  life  ?  What  was 
it  to  him  that  the  man  was  young  and  proclaimed  him- 
self innocent  of  the  terrible  crime  with  which  he  was 
charged,  and  for  which  he  stood  before  the  tribunal  of 
justice  to  be  tried  for  his  life?  Did  he  think  of  the 
prisoner,  or  did  he  think  of  the  result,  if  he  should 
gain  a  verdict  on  his  side  —  in  his  favor  ?  Can  we 
blame  him  that  all  other  considerations  were  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  thought  of  that  most  powerful  motor 
of  human  actions  —  self? 

The  prisoner  sat  in  his  seat,  pale,  but  firm.  Who 
could  tell  the  suffering,  the  agony  which  he  had  known 
since  his  arrest  and  imprisonment  ?  There  he  sat, 
weak  and  pale,  proud  and  determined,  the  cynosure  of 
all  eyes.  Was  he  guilty,  and  could  he  sit  there  thus 
boldly  and  face  his  accusers,  or  was  he  innocent,  and 
was  it  the  light  of  innocence  which  shone  in  his  super- 
naturally  bright  eyes  ?  His  guilt  or  innocence  would 
soon  be  determined. 


70  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

Some  among  the  crowd  wavered  in  their  opinions, 
while  others  smiled  grimly,  and  said,  "  He  is  a  deep 
;un." 

His  counsel  were  by  his  side,  cheering  and  en- 
couraging him. 

He  kept  his  eyes  resolutely  away  from  wandering 
a  short  distance  back  of  him,  where  sat  an  old  man, 
slightly  haggard,  and  three  ladies,  deeply  veiled. 

A  strange  friendship  had  sprung  up  between  Mary 
Farly  and  poor  May  Derville. 

There  is  no  friendship  so  great,  so  pure,  or  so  lasting 
as  that  which  is  formed  and  has  its  origin  in  a  common 
misfortune. 

A  great  shadow  had  thus  early  fallen  on  the  lifepath 
of  this  loving  young  girl — a  shadow  which  threatened 
to  darken  her  existence  for  years,  and  perhaps  forever. 
The  other  had  seen  and  suifered,  until  she  had  become 
used  to  suffering.  Her  life  had  been  blasted  in  its 
youth.  She  had  known  luxury  and  poverty,  happiness 
and  misery.  t 

Ah!  sometimes  all  the  happiness  of  years  cannot 
blot  out  or  atone  for  the  suffering  of  a  day. 

We  do  not  intend  to  describe  the  meeting  of  Mary 
Farly  and  May  Derville,  or  how  they  passed  those 
terrible  days  before  the  trial,  nor  what  a  blighting 
effect  they  had  on  poor  May.  We  could  not  if  we 
wished,  satisfactorily  to  ourselves  or  to  our  readers. 
They  were  sad,  sad  days  of  darkness  and  grief. 

Poor  May  had  lived  years  in  a  single  month.  Her 
parents  and  Mary  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  attending 
the  trial,  but  vainly.  She  had  determined  to  be  present, 
to  hear  all  the  evidence  and  the  accusations,  though  it 
killed  her;  and  now  she  is  here  in  the  court-room. 


THE  WORLD  TO   BLAME.  71 

But  listen  :  the  proceedings  have  begun.  They  are 
empanelling  a  jury.  First  one  is  rejected;  he  has 
formed  an  opinion.  Then  another  is  opposed  to  cap- 
ital punishment.  Another  answers  correctly,  and  is 
accepted  by  the  prosecution ;  but  the  learned  counsel 
for  the  defence  think  that  he  appears  entirely  too 
anxious  to  get  on  the  jury,  and  in  consequence  chal- 
lenge him  peremptorily. 

It  is  slow,  tedious  work ;  but  a  jury  is  obtained  at 
last.  See,  there  sit  the  twelve  men  who  hold  the  pris- 
oner's life  in  their  hands.  He  looks  on  the  jury,  the 
jury  look  on  him.  The  trial  begins. 

The  District  Attorney  is  speaking.  His  speech  is 
very  powerful,  very  able,  very  bitter  against  the 
prisoner. 

We  will  not  dwell  upon  the  evidence.  He  proves 
that  the  prisoner  has  led  a  very  dissipated  life;  that 
the  razor  with  which  the  bloody  deed  had  evidently 
been  committed  had  been  found  in  the  prisoner's  room, 
and  was,  in  fact,  his ;  he  calls  John  Jones,  the  man- 
servant before  referred  to,  who  testifies  that  angry 
words  and  vain  remonstrances  had  often  passed  be- 
tween the  deceased  and  the  prisoner ;  that  on  the  very 
night  of  the  murder  he  had  heard  the  two  talking  of 
the  life  the  prisoner  had  been  leading;  he  shows  that 
the  prisoner,  by  his  own  admission,  was  the  last  one 
known  to  enter  the  house,  and  had  been  the  first  one 
to  discover  the  murder.  The  theory  in  regard  to  the 
motive,  founded  on  the  evidence,  was  that  the  deceased 
had  made  a  will  not  in  favor  of  the  prisoner,  and  it 
was  to  destroy  this  will  that  the  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted. 


72  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

The  case  looked  very  black  against  the  prisoner ;  the 
circumstances,  to  say  the  least,  were  suspicious. 

The  prosecution  show  that  on  the  very  day  of  the 
arrest  a  carriage  had  been  provided  by  the  prisoner's 
friends  to  aid  in  his  escape. 

The  prosecution  rest. 

The  court  adjourns. 

The  prisoner  is  conveyed  back  to  the  Tombs. 

On  the  following  day  the  defence  opened  and  prom- 
ised to  clear  away  the  suspicion  that  had  been  attached 
to  the  unfortunate  prisoner. 

Poor  May  took  the  stand.  The  excitement  was  in- 
tense. You  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop  at  that  moment. 
She  gives  her  testimony  in  a  clear,  firm  voice,  though 
she  is  very  pale  and  trembling  with  weakness.  She 
shows  where  the  prisoner  had  passed  the  evening  of 
that  fatal  night.  Mr.  Derville  testifies  as  to  the  car- 
riage which  he  had  provided.  The  defence  show  that 
the  greatest  love  existed  between  the  prisoner  and  the 
deceased ;  that  the  prisoner,  harking  to  the  deceased's 
counsel,  had  abandoned  his  dissipated  course. 

A  vast  amount  more  testimony  is  adduced.  The 
witnesses  are  examined  and  cross-examined,  and  at  last 
it  is  over  and  the  evidence  is  closed. 

Then  arose  the  senior  counsel  for  the  defence  to 
sum  up. 

He  began  in  a  low  but  distinct  voice,  gradually 
gaining  in  strength,  and  power,  and  pathos,  and  swell- 
ing in  musical  cadence  throughout  the  room. 

He  spoke  of  the  love  of  the  deceased  for  the  innocent 
man  who  stood  before  them,  accused  of  a  crime  as  mon- 
strous as  it  was  improbable.  As  to  the  carriage,  they 


THE   WORLD   TO   BLAME.  73 

had  proved  that  it  had  been  provided  in  all  kindness 
by  Mr.  Derville,  the  prisoner's  friend.  Was  it  right 
that  an  act  of  kindness  should  be  made  to  tell  against 
the  prisoner  —  an  act  which  had  been  done  without 
the  knowledge  of  the  young  man  ?  He  spoke  of  the 
conversation  between  Derville  and  Frederick  on  the 
morning  of  the  arrest,  when  the  former,  who  had  heard 
the  rumors  and  read  the  article  accusing  the  prisoner, 
urged  him  to  leave  the  city.  What  had  been  the  pris- 
oner's answer  ?  He  wondered  at  the  request :  he  was 
surprised.  The  shock  that  his  system  had  received  on 
that  eventful  morning  had  thrown  him  on  a  bed  of 
sickness.  He  spoke  of  the  suifering  the  young  man  had 
undergone  in  the  solitude  of  his  prison-cell,  accused  of 
a  crime  of  which  he  knew  himself  to  be  innocent.  It 
was  bad  enough  for  a  guilty  man,  in  his  prison. 
What,  then,  must  an  innocent  being  suffer  ?  He  spoke 
in  words  so  tender  and  pathetic  as  to  draw  tears  even 
to  the  eyes  of  the  judge.  He  appealed  directly  and 
strongly  to  the  feelings.  The  motive  that  the  prosecu- 
tion has  alleged  was  ridiculous  —  the  height  of  absurd- 
ity. They  said  that  the  safe  had  been  ransacked  and 
the  will  taken  out.  How  did  they  know  a  will  was 
there  ?  Was  there,  in  fact,  a  will  ?  They  must  first 
prove  that  the  deceased  had  made  such  a  will  as  alleged. 
They  had  not.  Their  case  fell  to  the  ground.  Proof  is 
required,  not  mere  statements  without  any  foundation. 
As  to  the  fact  of  the  bloody  razor,  it  was  unaccountable. 
The  prisoner  knew  nothing  of  it.  Was  it  likely  that  the 
murderer  would  hide  the  instrument  of  his  guilt  where 
it  could  so  easily  be  found  ?  It  was  not  probable.  It 
7 


74  THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

would  be  a  folly  such  as  no  one  not  naturally  a  fool 
would  be  guilty  of. 

We  cannot  speak  as  he  spoke,  nor  use  the  language 
he  used.  We  merely  give  the  substance  of  his  speech. 
It  was  not  so  much  what  he  said  as  the  manner  in 
which  he  said  it. 

He  criticised  the  evidence  and  dissected  it  piece  by 
piece,  and  showed  how  weak  the  case  against  the  ac- 
cused was.  Nothing  was  left  untouched,  and  he  con- 
cluded in  a  powerful  appeal  to  the  jury,  charging  them 
to  think  well  and  carefully  before  deciding;  to  re- 
member the  great  and  stern  duty  which  rested  on  them; 
to  remember  that  a  life  hung  upon  their  decision.  If 
the  prisoner  was  guilty,  he  should,  by  all  means,  be 
punished  ;  but  he  was  not  guilty;  he  was  innocent  — 
a  victim  of  circumstances.  There  was  no  positive 
proof  against  him  ;  the  feeling  against  him  had  been 
very  great  and  bitter,  and  he  had  been  condemned  by 
the  press  before  he  was  tried  at  all.  There  were,  at  the 
least,  strong  doubts  of  his  guilt,  and  he  was  entitled  to 
a  verdict  as  just  as  it  would  be  righteous  —  a  verdict 
of  acquittal. 

He  sat  down.  He  had  made  a  powerful  appeal 
for  the  prisoner,  and  after  he  had  finished,  opinions 
wavered  again.  The  evidence  was  not  so  damning  and 
conclusive  as  it  had  at  first  appeared. 

The  prisoner  thanked  him  with  his  eyes. 

And  now  the  District  Attorney  is  summing  up.  See, 
how  eagerly  they  listen  to  his  words !  How  eloquent  he 
is !  What  rapt  attention  is  paid  to  his  powerful  speech  ! 

Oh,  be  very  careful  what  you  do,  my  friend ;  you 
know  not  how  soon  it  may  be  brought  up  and  made 
to  tell  terribly  against  you. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  75 

How  he  dwells  upon  the  life  the  prisoner  has  been 
leading !  How  he  dwells  upon  every  little  minute  act 
that  can  possibly  injure  the  man  who  stands  there  and 
listens  aghast  to  his  burning  words;  the  man  who 
longs  to  cry  out,  "  You  lie !  it  is  a  lie !  a  lie !  it  is  not 
so ! "  but  dares  not,  cannot ;  is  bound  to  the  rock  of 
silence  by  chains  which  he  is  powerless  to  break ;  who 
must  sit  there,  and  listen  to  all  that  is  said  against 
him  without  a  murmur,  but  can  only  shake  his  head 
dissentingly. 

The  chains  which  the  prosecution  have  woven  around 
him  stagger  him.  He  thinKS  he  is  dreaming;  he 
hardly  knows  whether  he  is  guilty  or  innocent.  He 
asks  himself,  "  Can  it  be  ?  "  He  is  in  a  doubt  about 
it  himself,  so  strong  is  the  evidence  against  him. 
Could  he  have  killed  his  father  unknowingly?  This 
doubt  is  agonizing !  He  hardly  knows  what  he  is  to 
think.  Oh,  it  is  fearful ! 

But  now  his  accuser  is  speaking  in  eloquent  language 
of  the  agony  and  anguish  of  mind  the  dead  man  suf- 
fered on  account  of  this  unnatural  son,  who  had  taken 
what  he  could  never  return  —  life  —  from  him  to 
whom  he  owed  his  existence.  He  was  aware  that  it 
seemed  unnatural,  impossible,  but  it  was  a  stern 
reality. 

He  dwelt  for  a  long  time  on  this  subject.  Then  he 
spoke  on  the  subject  of  the  carriage,  which  had  been 
provided  for  the  prisoner's  escape.  He  spoke  on  this 
carriage,  on  this  little  incident,  at  great  length. 

Then,  as  to  the  motive.  The  prisoner  knew  that  the 
deceased  had  made  a  will,  which  practically  disinherited 
him.  To  destroy  this  will  was  a  great  object  of  the 


76  THE  WOELD  TO  BLAME. 

prisoner.  He  wanted  money.  He  must  have  it. 
And  so  he  murdered  his  father  in  cold  blood.  For 
what?  Had  he  not  shown  why?  Was  not  the  motive 
sufficient?  Was  it  not  apparent ? 

And  so  he  went  on  —  at  times  pathetic,  then  stern 
and  accusing,  dwelling  upon  everything  at  length, 
until  he  had  made  out  the  guilt  of  the  prisoner  almost 
conclusively. 

They  listened  to  him  attentively  in  amazement  and 
with  horror.  How  black  everything  looked  against 
the  unfortunate  prisoner,  who  sat  there  with  his  head 
bowed  at  last,  perfectly  powerless ! 

The  speech  was  ended  in  the  usual  way.  He  de- 
manded justice,  only  justice,  and  then  sat  down  amid 
murmurs  of  applause,  which  were  quickly  hushed. 

Then  came  the  charge.  It  was  fair  and  impartial. 
The  judge  laid  down  the  law;  then  presented  the  evi- 
dence in  a  succinct,  clear  manner.  There  was  no  bias 
one  way  or  another. 

The  effect  of  the  charge  was  to  set  the  people  think- 
ing. It  gave  them  time  to  recover  from  the  influence 
of  the  eloquence  of  the  counsel. 

And  now  the  jury  have  retired. 

Speculation  is  rife  as  to  their  verdict.  Will  it  be 
guilty,  or  not  guilty ;  or  will  they  disagree  ?  The  judge 
sits  listlessly  in  his  chair.  The  lawyers  are  very  cool. 
The  people  breathe  a  little. 

What  keeps  the  jury  out  so  long?  What  can  they 
be  arguing  about?  They  will  certainly  disagree. 

Oh,  this  terrible  suspense ! 

They  have  come  in  for  further  information. 

Then  they  retire  again. 


THE   WORLD   TO   BLAME.  77 

They  are  out  a  long  time,  surely. 

But  now,  see  —  still !  here  they  come.  How  solemn 
they  look,  as  they  take  their  places  ! 

No  one  breathes ;  how  suffocating  the  air  seems ! 
This  silence  is  terrible.  But  now  it  is  broken  by  the 
clerk  of  the  court. 

"  Prisoner,  stand  !  " 

The  prisoner  stands. 

"  The  jury  will  please  rise  !  " 

The  jury  rise. 

"  Prisoner, look  on  the  jury  ! " 

The  prisoner  does  so. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  have  you  agreed  upon 
your  verdict  ?  " 

Ah,  listen ! 

The  foreman  answers  : 

"  We  have." 

How  still  and  quiet  is  the  court-room ! 

"  And  how  do  you  find  —  guilty,  or  not  guilty  ?  " 

It  is  absolutely  suffocating  ! 

But,  ha !  Oh,  God  !  listen  to  the  answer  ! 

What  is  it?  What  do  they  say?  Oh,  God!  no! 
no!  y 

"  GUILTY  ! " 

The  echo  replies : 

"GUILTY!" 

The  prisoner  stands  firm.  But  deaden  your  ears  to 
that  terrible,  unearthly  shriek !  Oh,  it  is  awful !  Some 
one  has  fainted.  There  is  a  slight  commotion,  while 
the  prisoner  staggers,  and,  unable  longer  to  control  his 
emotion,  shrieks  out  one  word  in  a  tone  of  exquisite 
suffering  and  anguish : 
7* 


78  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

"MAY!" 

But  now  they  have  borne  the  lifeless  form  out,  and 
quiet  is  restored  again. 

The  defence  request  that  the  jury  be  polled. 

One  by  one  they  record  their  verdict.  They  all 
answer : 

"Guilty!" 

The  sentence  is  being  pronounced,  but  the  prisoner 
only  hears  the  last  words : 

" There  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  you  are 

dead,  and  may  God,  in  His  infinite  goodness,  have 
mercy  on  your  soul  !  " 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   BITTERNESS   OF   THE   SOUL. 

IT  is  a  fine,  bright  day  outside.  The  air  is  full  of  a 
soft,  sweet  calmness  that  sets  you  thinking  and 
dreaming,  and  makes  you  feel  indolent  and  sleepy. 
You  have  seen  such  days,  when  the  blood  seems  hardly 
to  course  through  the  veins ;  when  the  mind  wanders 
far  away,  and  the  eyelids  have  an  almost  irresistible 
tendency  to  close.  The  soft  breeze  sweeps  across  your 
heated  brow ;  oh  !  so  delicious  and  cooling.  You  do 
not  feel  like  working,  or  getting  into  a  passion  ;  the 
dreamy  softness  in  the  air  has  a  soothing  effect,  and 
makes  you  feel  at  rest.  Everything  appears  beautiful 
to  your  sight;  and,  if  confined  to  the  city,  you  long, 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  79 

oh  !  so  fervently,  for  a  short  sail  on  the  river,  and  a 
glimpse  of  the  green  trees  and  blooming  fields  of  the 
country.  You  feel  at  rest,  at  peace ;  and  you  do  not 
think  that  there  are  other  human  beings  like  yourself, 
from  whom  the  'sunshine,  the  refreshing  breeze,  the 
beauties  of  the  day  are  all  excluded ;  who  are  suffering 
untold  agony;  who  are  crying  out  in  anguish  and 
passion,  and  cursing  the  day  that  had  witnessed  their 
entrance  into  a  world  naturally  good  and  beautiful,  but 
made  what  it  is  by  those  who  live  in  it. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  true.  No  sunshine,  no  cooling 
breeze  steals  through  the  dark  portals  of  the  city  prison, 
into  the  cell  which  seems  to  mock  at  the  suffering  of 
the  man  so  young,  who  paces  up  and  down  while  he 
speaks  to  the  woman  who  sits  by  the  side  of  the  bed. 

The  cell  is  continually  reminding  him,  that,  though 
he  is  in  good  health,  and  might  live  for  years,  he  is 
dying,  dying  fast ;  that  at  a  certain  hour  of  a  certain 
day  that  is  approaching  —  it  seems  to  him  with  light- 
ning-like rapidity —  his  heart  will  cease  to  beat,  and 
the  warm  blood  will  not  course  any  more  through  his 
veins.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  be  placed  face  to  face 
with  death  ;  to  see  the  ghostly  visitor  stretch  out  his 
skeleton  hand  toward  you,  who  are  powerless  to  move 
beyond  his  reach ;  to  feel  his  icy  hand  touch  your  body, 
so  warm  with  life.  Oh,  it  is  terrible  ! 

"It  is  not  right;  it  is  wrong  and  cruel  and  unjust," 
he  was  saying,  in  a  tone  that  showed  the  agony  he  suf- 
fered could  be  felt,  but  never  told  ;  "  I  have  no  rest,  no 
peace,  only  darkness  wherever  I  turn  my  eyes.  I  ask 
myself,  is  it  a  dream  ?  And  then  I  look  around.  No ! 
The  terrible  reality  forces  itself  upon  my  mind.  I  am. 


80  THE   WORLD   TO   BLAME. 

dying !  I  curse  the  day  that  gave  me  birth  !  I  ask 
myself  why  was  I  born  to  such .  a  fate  ?  I  shall  go 
wild,  wild,  I  tell  you !  " 

"  Hush ;  be  calm,  Frederick.  There  is  no  help  for 
it,  or  you  would  not  be  here.  It  would  be  better  if 
you  could  die  now,  for  then  you  would  escape  the  igno- 
miny of  the  other.  But,  no,  that  must  not  be,  for  they 
would  say  that  you  acknowledged  your  guilt  by  taking 
your  own  life.  And  that  shall  never  be  !  They  shall 
never  say  that  you  admitted  the  crime  for  which  they 
have  condemned  you !  Be  strong  and  firm  in  your 
innocence,  and  remember,  that  however  they  may  judge 
you  here  on  earth,  there  is  a  God  above  us  all  who  can 
see  into  the  innermost  recesses  of  the  heart ;  who  knows 
the  truth,  and  who  is  just !  " 

"  And  who  is  just  ?  "  he  repeated,  almost  mockingly, 
continuing  in  a  passionate,  bitter  tone:  "Some  men- 
have  wealth,  luxury,  happiness;  others  have  only 
poverty,  misery,  starvation !  Is  this  right,  is  this  just, 
Mrs.  Farly?  Some  women  have  every  comfort  a 
human  being  can  enjoy ;  others  are  compelled  to  sell 
their  very  souls  for  a  morsel  of  bread  !  Is  this  right,  is 
this  just,  Mary  Farly?  If  we  are  all  His  children, 
why  are  we  not  treated  alike  ?  Misery  to  you,  and 
happiness  to  him  —  is  that  just?  Some  men  commit 
murder  and  escape ;  others  are  innocent  and  hang.  Is 
that  just?  I  tell  you  I  am  innocent,  innocent,  inno- 
cent as  the  babe  unborn !  And  yet  I  am  condemned 
to  the  gallows !  I  am  called  murderer,  assassin,  loathed, 
despised,  scorned,  pitied!  The  thought  of  death  is 
terrible  to  the  guilty  !  To  see  day  by  day  slip  by  with 
ceaseless  rapidity;  to  know  that  you  are  well,  might 


THE   WORLD   TO   BLAME.  81 

live  for  years,  and  yet  must  die ;  to  see  death  coming 
nearer  and  nearer  to  you  every  moment ;  to  know  that 
at  a  certain  hour  you  must  walk,  powerless  and  help- 
less, to  certain  death  !  Can  you  realize  what  this  is  ? 
Can  you  appreciate  what  an  exquisite  invention  of  tor- 
ture this  is  ?  They  say  it  is  an  easy  death.  It  may 
be.  But  it  is  the  agonizing  thought,  which  cannot  be 
stopped,  that  torments  you  before  that  day  comes  which 
you  are  aware  is  to  be  your  last  day  on  earth !  Ah  ! 
It  is  a  torture  rack,  an  exquisite  invention  of  cruelty ! 
It  is  terrible  enough  to  a  guilty  wretch ;  but  when  one 
is  innocent,  what  must  it  be  then  ?  You  cannot  imagine 
what  it  is  to  an  innocent  being,  possessed  of  a  sensitive 
mind,  to  know  that  he  is  called  murderer,  assassin ;  is 
loathed,  despised,  scorned;  his  life-blood  craved  for, 
and  yet  is  pitied  by  the  sentimental  few,  who  pity  while 
they  think  him  guilty !  Bah !  And  this  is  what 
you  call  just!  Is  it?  is  it?  is  it  right?  is  it  just? 
No !  —  " 

She  had  listened  to  him  thus  far  in  a  sort  of  horrible 
fascination,  that  enchained  her  attention,  and  rendered 
her  unable  to  utter  a  word ;  but  now  she  interrupted 
him : 

"  Stop !  stop !  Frederick,"  she  cried,  with  out- 
stretched hands,  "  you  know  not  what  you  are  saying, 
nor  how  you  are  paining  me.  You  are  angry,  and 
half-crazed,  or  you  would  never  speak  so  !  I  cannot 
think  that  in  your  right  mind  you  would  say  what  you 
have  said.  Stop,  I  implore  you ;  for  your  own  sake, 
for  my  sake,  for  the  sake  of  her  who  loves  you  with  an 
unutterable  love,  but  who  is  resigned ;  who  would 

rather  you  should  die,  than  live  to  be  pointed  out  and 

F 


82  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

called  a  murderer;  who  has  bowed  her  head  before 
Him,  and  said,  *  Thy  will  be  done ; '  for  the  sake  of 
your  angel  father,  and  your  sainted  mother,  who  look 
down  on  you  from  heaven,  and  know  your  innocence, 
I  beg  you,  I  implore  you,  do  not  talk  in  that  sacri- 
legious way,  but  place  your  faith  in  Him  !  *  He  moves 
in  a  mysterious  way  His  wonders  to  perform.' 

What,  oh  what  is  the  wealth  of  the  Indies, 
Compared  to  the  boon  of  a  priceless  love  ? 

What,  oh  what  are  the  pleasures  of  earth, 
Compared  to  the  bliss  of  heaven  above  ?  " 

She  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  then  continued : 

"  When  He  commanded  Abraham  of  old  to  sacrifice 
the  son  whom  he  loved  so  well,  the  son  of  his  old  age, 
his  Isaac,  upon  the  altar,  did  that  great  patriarch  hesi- 
tate, and  say,  'It  is  wrong,  it  is  cruel,  it  is  unjust?' 
No !  He  wept,  but  he  obeyed  the  will  of  his  Almighty 
Father,  and  led  his  son,  his  Isaac,  to  the  sacrificial 
altar !  Oh,  it  is  a  grand,  a  great  story !  It  teaches 
us  that  they  who  place  their  faith  and  trust  in  Him 
will  never  be  deserted,  need  never  fear;  for  He  is 
good,  He  is  just !  What  is  earth  compared  to  heaven  ? 
So  long  as  he  knows  your  innocence,  what  if  the  world 
say  you  are  guilty  ?  " 

"But  it  is  an  ignominious  death;  you  yourself 
said  so." 

"  Did  I  ?  I  was  wrong.  No  death  is  ignominious 
to  the  innocent,  only  to  the  guilty.  Place  your  faith 
in  Him,  trust  in  Him,  pray  to  Him  to  forgive  your 
sins.  The  repentant  shall  be  forgiven,  even  at  the 
eleventh  hour.  He  doeth  all  things  for  the  best ;  there 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  83 

is  good  in  everything.  His  purpose  may  not  be 
known,  cannot  be  seen  by  us  ;  but  it  is  good.  It  may 
seem  strange,  cruel,  unjust  to  us  poor  mortals ;  but  it 
is  not  so.  It  is  not  for  us  to  question,  or  ask  why,  but 
only  to  obey  —  to  say '  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done.'  I 
know  it  seems  hard,  is  hard  to  say,  but  the  soul  should 
rise  superior  to  the  body  and  the  mind.  Believe  me, 
He  doeth  all  things  for  the  best.  Only  trust  in  Him 
and  you  are  safe. 

I  can  hear  him  in  the  sunshine  ; 
In  tempest  and  storm  I  hear 
His  voice  a  saying  unto  me, 
Place  all  your  faith  and  trust  in  me; 
Have  faith  and  ye  need  not  fear." 

She  spoke  like  one  inspired,  with  such  earnestness 
and   evident   sincerity,  as   to   make   him   repent  the 
words  he  had  uttered  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul. 
******* 

It  is  the  day  before  the  execution. 

Hear  what  the  prisoner  says  to  his  devoted  friend  — 
the  friend  who  had  suffered  so  much,  and  yet  whose 
mission  it  had  been  to  conceal  her  own  grief  and  con- 
sole others. 

"  You  say  she  is  resigned.  I  am  glad  of  it.  I,  too, 
am  resigned.  I  do  not  fear  death  now.  I  have 
thought  and  thought  and  thought  of  it,  until  the  idea 
has  become  familiar  to  my  mind,  and  I  think  of  it  no 
more.  Death  has  lost  its  terrors  for  me  now  —  it 
would  really  be  a  disappointment  were  I  to  live. 
God  is  just,  and  whatever  is  is  right." 


84  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

[From  the  New  York .] 

Yesterday  was  a  beautiful  day.  What  a  contrast  to 
the  scene  which  was  enacted  in  the  yard  of  the  Tombs, 
where  an  unnatural  son  expiated  his  terrible  crime  ! 

At  twelve  o'clock  noon,  yesterday,  Frederick  Wynd- 
ham,  the  parricide,  paid  the  penalty  of  the  crime  of 
which  he  was  convicted  and  found  guilty  beyond  the 
possibility  of  a  doubt.  The  evidence  was  all  against 
him ;  he  was  clearly  and  undoubtedly  proved  guilty, 
notwithstanding  the  eloquence  of  the  able  counsel  who 
defended  him. 

Our  readers  are  all  familiar  with  the  facts  of  the 
tragedy,  the  subsequent  arrest  and  trial  of  the  assassin, 
and  yet  a  brief  synopsis  may  not  be  uninteresting. 

(Here  followed  the  synopsis.)  Yesterday  the  pris- 
oner had  an  audience  with  his  steadfast  friends,  Mr., 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Derville,  Mr.  Smithson  and  his  lady 
friend.  The  scene  was  affecting  in  the  extreme.  The 
parting  between  the  unfortunate  man,  who  still  professes 
his  innocence,  notwithstanding  the  terrible  array  of 
facts  against  him,  and  his  betrothed,  brought  tears  even 
to  the  eyes  of  those  who  have  become  accustomed  to 
such  scenes. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  prisoner  announced  himself 
ready,  and  marched  with  a  proud,  firm  step,  and  head 
erect,  to  the  frowning  gallows.  There  were  only  a  few 
spectators  present  outside  of  the  officials  and  reporters. 

The  unfortunate  man  allowed  himself  to  be  pinioned 

calmly.  The  Rev.  Mr. offered  up  a  prayer.  The 

prisoner  heard  the  death-warrant  read  in  silence. 
When  asked  if  he  had  anything  to  say,  he  replied : 

"I  forgive  my  enemies.     I  thank  you  all  for  the 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  85 

kindness  you  have  shown  me  during  my  prison-life.  I 
have  made  my  peace  with  God.  I  am  willing  to  die, 
but  I  am  innocent ;  by  the  Heaven  above  me,  I  swear 
that  I  am  innocent." 

Then  the  black  cap  that  was  to  shut  out  the  sunlight 
forever  from  his  eyes,  was  drawn  over  his  face. 

Silence  and  dread  seemed  to  hang  over  everything. 
"  No  man  dared  to  look  aloft ;  fear  was  on  every 
soul." 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the  sharp  twang  of  a 
rope,  and  the  unfortunate  being  was  jerked  from  his 
feet  into  the  air.  There  he  hung  between  heaven  and 
earth. 

How  black  and  still  it  seemed  ! 

Once  or  twice  the  legs  were  drawn  up  as  if  in  pain. 
That  was  all. 

He  died  easy  —  of  strangulation.  At  half-past 
twelve  the  body  was  cut  down  and  life  pronounced 
extinct.  The  remains  were  delivered  to  his  friends 
for  interment. 

So  ended  the  last  act  of  the  drama;  and  while  we 
cannot  but  feel  pity  that  one  so  young  should  have 
come  to  such  an  untimely  and  ignominious  end,  we 
hope  that  his  fate  will  prove  a  warning  to  others  who 
are  even  now  treading  in  his  footsteps,  and  giving  full 
sway  to  unbridled  and  vicious  passions,  which,  if  not 
controlled  and  kept  in  check,  must  sooner  or  later  end 
in  a  death  of  shame  and  ignominy. 


86  THE  WOULD  TO  BLAME. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

CAPITAL,  PUNISHMENT. 

IT  was,  indeed,  true.  Frederick  Wyndham  had 
walked  with  a  firm,  even  tread,  his  head  erect,  to 
the  scaffold. 

If  he  shuddered  inwardly  as  he  looked  on  the  dread 
instrument  of  death,  whatever  he  may  have  felt  —  and 
who  can  tell  the  feelings  of  a  human  being  at  such  a 
moment  ?  —  he  showed  no  outward  signs  of  emotion. 

He  did  not  meet  his  death  with  that  bravado  which 
says,  "  I  will  die  like  a  man."  They  flatter  themselves 
who  say  so ;  they  do  not  die  like  men,  but  like  dogs. 

It  was  the  knowledge  that  he  was  innocent  which 
upheld  him  in  this  terrible  hour.  All  the  joy  and 
pleasure  that  he  had  anticipated  in  his  life  had  gone 
out. 

We  have  already  quoted  from  a  morning  paper,  show- 
ing that  he  died  protesting  his  innocence. 

The  evening  journals  had  all  come  out  with  extras, 
and  the  newsboys  had  shouted  "  Extra !  Full  par- 
ticulars of  the  execution  !  " 

The  papers  were  greedily  snapped  up,  for  there  is  a 
sort  of  horrible  fascination  in  this  kind  of  reading. 

What  is  the  argument  in  favor  of  capital  punish- 
ment? What  its  object?  The  argument,  and  the 
only  plausible  plea  in  its  favor,  is  that  the  interests  of 
society  require  it.  This  argument  is  hypothetical  and 
fallacious ;  and  the  best  proof  that  it  is  so  is  the  fact 


THE   WORLD  TO   BLAME.  87 

that  where  it  has  been  abolished,  and  imprisonment  for 
life  substituted  in  its  stead,  the  interests  of  society  have 
been  as  well  protected  as  they  ever  were. 

But  why,  say  you,  should  the  respectable  portion  of 
the  inhabitants  be  compelled  to  support  for  life  the 
criminal  ? 

If  this  be  your  argument,  then,  why  not  hang  all 
criminals,  robber,  and  burglar,  and  forger,  as  well  as 
murderer  ?  This  was  at  one  time  the  law  in  England, 
and  yet  you  look  back  to  that  time  with  horror,  pro- 
nounce such  laws  barbarous,  and  the  age  in  which  they 
were  enacted  uncivilized.  And,  notwithstanding,  you 
continue  to  hang  murderers  !  Is  not  hanging  a  relic 
of  barbarism? 

You  reply  with  the  Bible  —  an  eye  for  an  eye,  a 
tooth  for  a  tooth.  If  you  take  those  words  literally, 
we  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  them  the  law  of 
savages, — the  words  of  barbarism  and  not  of  humanity. 
To  our  mind,  they  are  not  meant  to  be  taken  in  their 
literal  sense,  but  merely  as  signifying  the  law  of 
redress  or  compensation, — not  the  law  of  vengeance. 

WHAT  is  the  object  of  capital  punishment  ?  Ven- 
geance ?  No ;  the  law  is  not  revengeful ;  the  law 
punishes  no  man  from  motives  of  revenge  or  malice. 
No  one  will  pretend  that  the  law  is  vengeful.  Will 
any  one  say  that  the  law  hangs  a  criminal  merely  for 
the  purpose  of  taking  his  life  ?  No  !  the  law  is  rather 
inclined  to  be  merciful. 

The  object  of  capital  punishment  is  to  prevent  crime. 
Does  it  do  so  ?  If  it  is  terrifying,  it  has  not  shown 
itself  to  be  so ;  for,  take  up  your  paper  and  see  how 
many  murders  you  find  recorded  there.  You  say  you 
hang  a  man  "  as  a  warning  to  others."  And  how  many 


88  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

men  you  have  hanged  as  a  warning  to  others  !  And 
with  what  result  ?  Is  murder  the  less  ? 

We  say  that  you  cannot  prevent  crime.  Men  in  the 
heat  of  passion  do  not  stop  to  think,  and  law  cannot 
so  change  human  nature  as  to  prevent  men  getting  into 
a  passion.  Men  who  will  commit  murder  in  cold  blood 
cannot  be  deterred  by  any  fear  of  the  law.  Men  under 
the  influence  of  evil  passions  will  murder  other  men,  in 
spite  of  all  examples,  while  humanity  remains  as  it  is. 

If,  then,  you  hang  men  "  as  a  warning  to  others," 
capital  punishment  has  utterly  failed  of  its  object. 
And  we  further  say  that  criminals  will  be  found  to 
prefer  that  the  law  should  punish  murder  with  death, 
than  with  imprisonment  for  life;  and  for  this  very 
simple  reason,  among  others,  it  is  in  their  favor  in  this, 
that  it  gives  them  a  loophole  of  escape.  Juries  are 
averse  to  finding  a  verdict  of  murder  in  the  first  de- 
gree. It  is  useless  saying  to  them,  "  Think  of  the  dead 
man,"  when  the  living  man  is  before  them.  It  is  use- 
less saying,  "  You  have  only  to  bring  in  the  verdict ; 
you  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  punishment."  They 
know — and  how  can  they  help  knowing  it  ? — that  it  is 
their  verdict  which  condemns  the  man  to  death.  And 
so,  wherever  and  whenever  it  is  possible,  a  jury  will 
shirk  bringing  in  such  a  verdict.  This  is  the  reason 
why  so  many  trials  have  been  made  mere  farces  by  the 
ridiculous  and  utterly  absurd  verdicts  which  juries  will 
bring  in  whenever  it  is  possible  —  verdicts  totally  un- 
warranted by  the  facts  and  evidence. 

"  There  are  many  questions,"  says  a  writer  on  this 
subject,  "  where  the  accused  is  either  guilty  of  murder 
in  the  first  degree,  or  not  guilty  at  all.  The  known 


THE  WORLD  TO   BLAME.  89 

bad  character  of  the  individual,  the  moral  certainty 
that  he  committed  the  crime,  avail  nothing  with  many 
(the  majority,  say  we)  jurymen,  unless  something  more 
certain  than  the  best  circumstantial  evidence  is  furnished 
to  convict  him.  They  must  either  send  him  to  the 
gallows,  or  set  him  free  to  prey  again  upon  society. 
If  the  alternative  were  imprisonment  for  life,  his  con- 
viction would  follow,  the  jury  feeling  that  he  would 
not  be  robbed  of  any  slight  possibility  there  might  exist 
of  his  proving  his  innocence  afterward,  and,  at  all  events, 
society  would  be  no  longer  a  sufferer  through  him." 

But,  you  say,  if  we  imprison  him  for  life,  he  may 
be  pardoned  soon  after  his  conviction.  To  remedy  and 
prevent  this,  we  answer,  Take  away  the  pardoning 
power  in  such  cases,  unless  where  it  is  afterwards  proved 
that  the  prisoner  has  suffered  an  evident  injustice. 

That  capital  punishment  —  that  the  effect  of  an  exe- 
cution, and  the  circumstances  accompanying  it  —  is 
demoralizing,  cannot  be  denied.  It  has  a  tendency  to 
feed  the  lower  and  baser  instincts  of  humanity,  and  to 
deaden  the  finer  sensibilities.  And  you  will  find  by 
observation  that  an  execution  is  immediately  followed 
by  one  or  more  murders. 

Unless  the  object  of  the  law  in  continuing  tjris  relic 
of  barbarism,  capital  punishment,  is  merely  to  kill,  or, 
in  other  words,  to  murder  with  safety,  then  capital 
punishment  has  undoubtedly  failed  of  its  purpose ;  and 
if,  as  we  have  endeavored  to  show,  the  substitution  of 
imprisonment  for  life  would  result  in  the  better  and 
surer  punishment  of  criminals,  who  now  frequently 
escape  by  reason  of  juries  being  possessed  of  human 
natures,  and  also  prevent  all  danger  of  persons  being 
8* 


90  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

hanged  on  strong  circumstantial  evidence,  who  may 
afterwards  be  found  to  have  been  innocent  (as  in  many 
cases  in  bygone  years),  then  undoubtedly  capital  punish- 
ment should  be  abolished. 

The  worst  use  to  which  you  can  put  a  man,  says 
Horace  Smith,  is  to  hang  him. 

Let  us  try  imprisonment  for  life.  If  the  result 
proves  detrimental,  is  it  not  easy,  if  it  becomes  neces- 
sary, to  return  to  the  old  system  ? 

We  know  Frederick  Wyndham  to  have  been  inno- 
cent, but  it  must  be  remembered  that  at  the  time  every- 
thing was  against  him.  There  was  only  his  own  bare 
assertion  as  to  his  innocence.  What  we  know,  was  not 
known  then  to  the  world. 

The  evidence  was  purely  circumstantial,  but  it  was 
very  strong.  He  was  generally  condemned  as  guilty. 
Outside  of  his  immediate  friends,  probably  no  one 
thought  him  innocent. 

He  was  a  victim  to  circumstances,  and  to  popular 
excitement. 

That  the  community  thought  him  guilty,  and  believed 
they  were  doing  right  in  ridding  themselves  of  this  un- 
fortunate man,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  For  the  sake 
of  humanity  we  must  believe  this. 

And  so  he  had  met  the  death  of  a  felon  :  this  young 
man  who  had  such  a  joyful,  happy  prospect  before  hirn 
so  short  a  time  previously. 

He  was  not  the  only  man  who  had  been  executed 
for  a  crime  of  which  he  was  entirely  innocent ;  nor  is 
it  probable,  while  capital  punishment  continues  in  force 
and  men  can  be  hanged  on  circumstantial  evidence,  he 
will  be  the  last  innocent  being  to  suffer  death  at  the 
hands  of  the  law. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  91 

CHAPTER  XII. 

A  BURGLAR. 

IT  is  just  one  year  to-day  since  Frederick  "VVyndham 
suffered  the  extreme  penalty  of  the  law. 
May  Derville  and  her  parents  had  immediately  after 
the  execution  departed  for  Europe,  and  are  now  on  their 
way  home. 

Mary  Farly  is  still  with  the  Smithsons,  but  is  to  join 
the  Dervilles  on  their  return,  for  she  has  promised  May 
to  live  with  her. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Mr.  Smithson's  cottage 
stands  alone,  at  some  distance  from  any  other  habita- 
tion. Ivy  vines  clamber  up  its  walls,  while  immense 
trees  extend  their  protecting  branches  almost  into  the 
windows. 

It  is  night,  and  everything  seems  wrapped  in  slum- 
ber. Not  a  sound  disturbs  the  silence,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  rain,  which  has  been  pouring  steadily  down, 
as  if  the  floodgates  of  heaven  had  been  opened,  ever 
since  the  break  of  day. 

But,  now,  look  closely.  See  that  man's  form  steal- 
ing slowly  and  carefully  along. 

He  stops  under  that  great  tree  by  the  side  of  the 
cottage.  You  can  scarcely  see  him  in  the  darkness. 

He  looks  around  him  cautiously  and  warily,  every 
sense  on  the  alert.  He  listens  intently,  striving  to 
catch  the  slightest  sound.  It  is  easy  seeing  that  his 
presence  here  is  for  no  good  purpose.  His  every  move- 


92  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

ment  shows  him  to  be  one  well  acquainted  with  the 
art  —  if  such  it  may  be  called  —  of  burglary. 

If  we  may  believe  the  gleam  of  satisfaction  in  his 
eyes,  he  hears  no  sound  except  the  incessant  pattering 
of  the  rain  as  it  descends  from  on  high,  drenching  him 
to  the  skin.  His  object  is  plain.  He  is  here  for  the 
purpose  of  theft. 

Now  watch  him.  How  nimbly,  how  like  a  cat  he 
climbs  up  the  tree,  hand  over  hand !  His  foot  slips, 
and  he  feels  a  cold  chill  run  through  him ;  but  he  re- 
gains his  equilibrium.  A  muttered  curse  escapes  his 
lips,  and  he  stops  to  listen  again.  He  seems  satisfied. 

He  climbs  out  on  the  limb  of  the  tree.  He  must  be 
careful ;  the  least  false  move  will  be  his  death.  He  dares 
not  look  down  below  him  for  fear  of  becoming  dizzy. 

He  extends  one  hand,  holding  fast  with  the  other  to 
the  branch,  and  gently  attempts  to  raise  the  window. 
There  was  no  catch  to  it.  It  went  up  silently ;  but, 
nevertheless,  he  hesitated  a  moment  before  leaping  into 
the  room.  But  the  room  is  unoccupied.  Evidently  it 
is  a  spare  chamber  for  the  use  of  visitors. 

He  is  drenched  to  the  skin,  but  he  is  in  the  room. 
Thus  far  all  has  worked  to  his  satisfaction. 

"  Now  for  it !  "  he  mutters  in  a  tone  of  determina- 
tion. 

Cautiously  opening  the  room  door,  he  stands  in  the 
hall  and  peers  through  the  darkness. 

With  a  noiseless  tread  he  steals  along,  all  the  while 
listening  intently  for  the  slightest  sound.  But,  ha  !  his 
foot  slips  on  something,  and  he  stumbles.  He  curses 
his  luck  inwardly,  and  remains  perfectly  motionless  for 
a  few  seconds. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  93 

Has  any  one  heard  him  ? 

Yes ;  slight  as  has  been  the  sound,  Mrs.  Smithson, 
lying  awake  in  bed,  has  heard  it,  and  is  startled. 

How  is  it  that  we  can  generally  feel  the  presence  of 
a  thief? 

She  awoke  her  husband  quietly. 

"  There  is  some  one  in  the  house,"  she  whispered. 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  answers,  drowsily. 

"  I  tell  you  there  is ;  I  heard  him  stumble.     Listen !" 

Sure  enough,  now  that  his  suspicion  is  aroused,  he 
can  hear  the  stealthy  footsteps  moving  along. 

Quietly  getting  out  of  the  bed,  completely  awakened, 
he  slips  on  his  clothes,  and,  armed  with  a  revolver, 
noiselessly  opens  his  room  door,  which  the  burglar  has 
passed,  and  stands  in  the  hall. 

He  can  perceive  a  man's  form  in  the  darkness  before 
him,  and  stealthily  approaching,  he  creeps  up  behind 
the  intruder.  The  latter  turns  almost  instinctively, 
just  as  Smithson  makes  a  spring  and  bears  him  heavily 
to  the  floor,  the  barrel  of  his  revolver  shining  in  the 
gloom. 

There  is  not  much  of  a  struggle  between  them. 
The  burglar,  completely  surprised,  and  already  weak- 
ened from  exposure  and  other  causes,  is  easily  over- 
come. 

A  robber,  as  a  general  thing,  is  a  coward.  He  is  as 
much  afraid  of  you  as  you  possibly  can  be  of  him.  If 
he  can  avoid  it  safely,  he  will  not  do  you  bodily  harm  ; 
for,  say  what  he  will,  however  bad  the  law,  he  fears  it. 
Fear  continually  walks  by  his  side.  Corner  him,  how- 
ever, and  he  will  struggle  with  the  desperation  that  is 
born  of  that  very  fear.  A  cornered  rat  will  turn  at 


94  THE  WOELD  TO  BLAME. 

bay.  It  is  the  same  with  that  other  species  of  rat  — 
the  robber.  If  he  can  possibly  escape  without  shed- 
ding blood,  he  will. 

It  was  desperation  alone  that  enabled  this  burglar  to 
struggle  the  little  he  did.  He  had  been  taken  by  sur- 
prise, from  behind,  and  before  he  had  time  to  recover 
from  the  shock  of  the  sudden  attack,  his  opponent  was 
on  top  of  him. 

This  opponent  had  many  advantages.  He  was  phys- 
ically stronger,  and,  besides,  he  had  a  revolver,  charged 
with  the  leaden  messengers  of  death,  which  was  pointed 
directly  at  the  burglar's  head,  so  that  the  latter  could 
almost  feel  the  deadly  weapon  pressing  against  his 
temple. 

"Remain  perfectly  quiet  —  not  a  movement,  or  I 
fire ! "  whispered  Smithson,  quickly,  in  a  tone  there 
was  no  mistaking. 

The  burglar  ceased  to  struggle,  and  wisely  obeyed 
his  captor's  command.  His  life  was  not  one  to  be 
envied,  wished  for,  or  enjoyed  ;  but  it  was  life,  never- 
theless, and  it  was  dear,  and  he  clung  to  it. 


It 's  easy  saying  you  'd  gladly  die, 


When  death  seems  far  away ; 
But  just  wait  till  he  comes  to  your  bedside, 
And  see  if  you  bid  him  stay ! 

By  this  time  the  servants  had  been  aroused,  and, 
though  trembling  with  fright,  they  came,  with  lights, 
to  their  master's  assistance. 

At  Smithson's  command  a  rope  was  quickly  brought 
to  him,  and  the  burglar  speedily  and  securely  bound, 
hand  and  foot. 

What  was  to  be  done  with  him  now  ? 


THE   WORLD   TO  BLAME.  95 

They  must  wait  for  the  morning ;  so  they  carried 
him  in  silence  into  the  dining-room  below. 

They  laid  him  on  the  floor.  He  did  not  speak  ;  he 
had  become  sullen,  moody,  stolid.  He  only  looked  at 
them  as  if  to  say  : 

"  Well,  now  you  have  me,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  me  ?  " 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Mary  Farly,  alarmed  by 
the  unusual  disturbance,  entered  the  room. 

The  state  of  affairs  was  quickly  explained  to  her. 

Then  her  glance  fell  upon  the  burglar.  His  eyes 
were  closed. 

She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  temples  and  staggered 
violently,  and  would  have  fallen,  but  that  Mr.  Smith- 
son  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

Did  she  recognize  the  captive  ? 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mary  ? "  whispered  Mr. 
Smithson. 

"  It  is  nothing  —  nothing ;  only  a  sudden  faintness," 
she  answered,  with  a  painful  smile. 

But  they  could  not  help  noticing  her  agitation,  and 
wondering  at  it. 

The  burglar  opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  full  at  her. 
If  she  recognized  him,  evidently  he  did  not  her.  All 
his  look  said  was,  "  Well,  who  are  you  ?  " 

But  that  look  satisfied  her,  and  set  all  doubts  at 
rest ;  and,  whispering  to  Smithson,  she  left  the  room 
hurriedly. 

He  followed  her.  She  stood  in  the  hall  near  the 
stairway. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  ?  "  she  said, 
hoarsely,  pointing  to  the  room. 


96  THE   WOKLD  TO  BLAME. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  We  will  have  to 
keep  him  until  the  morning,  and  then  deliver  him  up 
to  the  authorities  for  trial." 

"  For  trial  ?  " 

There  was  something  in  her  voice,  as  she  repeated 
the  words,  that  made  him  look  at  her.  She  was  deathly 
pale,  and  trembling,  as  if  with  an  ague. 

"  No !  no  !  You  must  not  —  you  must  not  —  shall 
not!" 

"  Shall  not  ?  "  he  echoed  in  surprise. 

"  No ;  for  my  sake.  Oh,  Mr.  Smithson,  bend  low 
your  head  !  He  is  —  he  is  — "  the  remaining  words 
were  whispered  very  faintly. 

He  had  but  time  to  raise  his  head  when  she  lifted 
her  hand  mechanically  and  fell  swooning  into  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE   END   OP   A   SAD   LIFE. 

IT  may  be  that  in  the  lives  of  all  of  us  there  shall 
be  a  day,  to  record  the  events  of  which  would  take 
many  pages  of  manuscript,  while  the  balance  of  our 
days  could,  as  a  distinguished  lady  novelist  puts  it,  be 
summed  up  in  the  simple  phrase : 

"  This  man  or  this  woman  continued  to  exist." 
Therefore,  as  we  are  writing  a  life  romance,  we  hope 
the  reader  will  not  be  surprised  at  rapid  changes  and 
events,  nor  at  the  lapse  of  time  between  the  various 
scenes,  to  which  we  devote  but  a  few  words. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  97 

It  would  be  folly  to  describe  every  day,  when  it  is 
only  a  few  of  them  that  require  our  attention,  so  far  as 
this  story  is  concerned. 

It  is  some  three  weeks  since  the  events  recorded  in 
the  preceding  chapter  occurred. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  reason,  the  burglar  had 
not  been  delivered  up  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  law, 
for  here  he  is,  thin,  pale,  and  emaciated,  with  the  seal 
of  death  resting  on  his  face,  under  clean,  white  cover- 
lets, with  Mary  Farly  for  his  nurse. 

Chilled  and  wet  to  the  skin  on  that  night  when  he 
entered  the  Smithsons'  cottage,  it  was  no  wonder  that 
when  the  morning  broke,  the  burglar  lay  helpless  in 
the  agonies  of  fever  and  delirium. 

They  carried  him  up  to  a  spare  room,  and  placed 
him  in  the  bed,  and  then  sent  for  a  disciple  of  Escula- 
pius. 

The  worthy  doctor  examined  his  patient,  and  shook 
his  head  gravely.  It  was  a  bad  case ;  and  on  this 
morning  he  had  taken  Mr.  Smithson  aside,  and  said  to 
him: 

"  There  is  no  use  in  my  coming  again.  There  is  no 
hope ;  he  cannot  live.  His  constitution  is  completely 
shattered  and  ruined,  and  he  is  a  mere  wreck.  I  can 
do  nothing  more  for  him.  He  does  not  suifer  much 
bodily  pain,  but  he  cannot  live  more  than  a  few  days 
—  two  or  three  at  the  utmost.  Let  me  know  when  he 
is  dead,  and  I  will  give  you  a  certificate." 

Smithson  repeated  the  doctor's  words  to  Mary  Farly 
very  gently  and  tenderly. 

He  had  expected  her  to  be  surprised  and  pained  ; 
but  she  listened  to  him  very  calmly.  All  she  said  was : 
9  G 


98  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

"  It  is  better  for  him  and  for  me." 

She  is  sitting  by  the  window  looking  out  upon  the 
bright  day  and  the  cloudless  sky.  Her  day  was  once 
bright,  her  sky  once  as  cloudless  as  the  sky  she  was 
gazing  on.  And  now,  what  a  change,  what  a  change 
the  last  few  years  of  her  life  had  wrought ! 

In  the  happy  days  of  her  childhood,  those  happiest 
days  of  life  to  look  back  upon,  when  the  world  seemed 
bright  and  fair  to  her  inexperienced  eyes,  and  misery 
was  a  word  unknown  to  her,  could  she  have  dreamed 
that  she  would  come  to  this ! 

Ah !  life  is  a  mystery,  and  death  is  its  solution  — 
the  dream  of  life,  and  the  awakening  of  death  —  and 
looking  forward  into  the  shadowy,  unknown  future, 
which  a  wise  Providence  has  veiled  from  our  eyes,  who 
can  say  what  changes  time  may  make  ? 

Mark  well  the  present,  and  seek  not  to  penetrate  the 
mysteries  of  the  future.  The  past  is  dead,  the  future 
not  yet  born,  but  the  present  is  before  us  —  here.  Our 
lives  are  to  a  great  extent  what  we  make  them ;  as  ye 
sow,  so  shall  ye  reap. 

Mary  Farly  could  not  refrain  from  turning  her  eyes 
upon  the  invalid,  whose  days  were  numbered,  and 
whose  life-tide  was  ebbing  fast,  even  as  he  lay  there  ap- 
parently dozing,  as  she  thought  of  those  days  which  had 
passed  away  forever. 

Presently  she  arose  and  began  walking  —  or,  rather, 
pacing  —  with  an  almost  noiseless  tread,  up  and  down 
the  room,  in  the  manner  of  one  whose  mind  is  dis- 
turbed, and  so,  unconsciously,  her  thoughts  found  vent 
in  words : 

"  And  it  has  come  to  this ! "  she  said,  half  aloud. 


THE   WORLD  TO   BLAME.  99 

"  It  has  come  to  this,  that  all  my  dreams  of  happiness 
have  faded  —  were  but  dreams  —  and  that  life  which  I 
had  pictured  to  myself  as  beautiful  and  noble,  a  Utopia 
of  my  imagination ;  that  I  am  doomed  to  bring  only 
misery  to  them  who  are  so  unfortunate  as  ever  to  love 
me,  and  my  life  not  only  to  be  a  curse  to  myself,  but 
also  to  others.  Leslie  Wyndham  loved  me ;  he  was 
murdered,  and  his  son  hanged.  And  see  him,  my  hus- 
band—  husband  still,  despite  all  the  suffering  he  has 
caused  me,  for  whom  I  rejected  a  noble  love,  and  to 
whom  I  have  ever  been  true  —  dying  a  thief,  a  common 
thief!  Why  was  I  ever  born  ?  What  have  I  done  to 
deserve  this  punishment?" 

But,  see,  look  at  the  invalid  leaning  on  his  elbow, 
his  face  full  of  agony,  and  his  sunken  eyes  staring  and 
gazing  at  the  woman  who  still  continues  her  restless 
pacing  up  and  down  the  room ;  those  eyes  which  burn 
like  coals  of  fire,  so  full  of  memories  of  the  past,  as 
they  conjure  themselves  up  in  an  instant;  those  eyes 
so  full  of  recognition. 

He  has  heard  every  word  she  has  uttered.  They 
have  imprinted  themselves  indelibly  on  his  brain,  and 
they  almost  set  him  wild. 

He  utters  a  hardly  distinct  groan.  She  turns  to  him, 
and  as  he  falls  back  upon  the  pillow,  one  word,  full 
of  the  most  poignant  anguish  and  self-reproach,  escapes 
his  lips : 

" MARY ! " 

She  looks  on  his  pallid  face  and  reads  the  truth 
there. 

It  has  come  —  that  which   she   has   expected,  has 


100  THE  WOULD  TO  BLAME. 

known  must  have  come  sooner  or  later.  If  he  had  not 
guessed  it,  she  would  have  told  him  ere  death  claimed 
him  as  his  own ;  for  she  had  felt  it  to  be  her  duty  to 
disclose  the  truth  —  the  secret  which  had  been  preying 
on  her  mind,  and,  in  a  few  short  weeks,  made  her  ap- 
pear aged. 

Ever  since  that  night  when  she  had  recognized  in 
the  burglar,  though  he  did  not  recognize  her,  the  man 
who  was  bound  to  her  by  the  holiest  of  ties,  the  man 
whom  she  had  sworn  at  the  altar  to  love,  honor,  cherish, 
and  obey  —  her  husband  —  Mary  Farly  had  undergone 
in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber  an  agony  which  few 
people  can  appreciate,  or  are  doomed  to  suffer. 

She  had  asked  herself  time  and  time  again,  if  she 
had  treated  this  man  as  she  should  have ;  if  she  had 
done  her  whole  duty  towards  him,  had  acted  rightly, 
and  for  the  best.  She  could  not  imagine  how  this 
man,  who  had  been  born  in  the  midst  of  luxury  and 
wealth,  who  had  been  tenderly  reared,  cultivated  and 
educated,  who  before  his  marriage  had  never  known 
the  miseries  of  poverty,  or  aught  of  suffering  ;  whose 
mind  had  been  trained  in  the  pathway  of  truth,  honor, 
and  principle,  but  whose  jealous  disposition  had  been 
his  curse,  could  ever  have  fallen  so  low,  could  ever 
have  descended  to  the  degradation  of  a  common  thief, 
without  honor,  without  principle,  an  enemy  to  others 
and  to  himself;  how  he  who  had  known  a  mother's 
love,  a  mother's  tender  care  and  solicitude,  and  all  the 
comforts  and  pleasure  that  wealth  could  furnish,  or  the 
mind  desire,  could  ever  have  fallen  so  low  as  to  become 
a  disgrace  to  her  who  bore  him.  Ah  !  could  that  mo- 
ther have  foreseen  that  the  son  she  idolized  would  come 
to  this ! 


THE   WORLD  TO   BLAME.  101 

Mary  Farly  did  not  know  the  worst  yet  —  the  terri- 
ble truth  she  was  soon  to  learn ;  but  she  asked  herself 
if  she  was  not  to  blame,  partly,  for  this  man's  down-r 
fall.  Had  she  not  been  in  fault? 

Had  she  done  right  in  continuing  on  her  terras  of 
intimacy  with  Leslie  Wyndham  against  her  husband's 
express  wishes  and  commands,  thus  encouraging  and 
feeding  his  jealousy  ?  She  knew  his  disposition ;  and 
now,  when  it  was  too  late,  she  looked  back  and  asked 
herself  would  it  not  have  been  better,  and  would  she 
not  have  been  spared  all  the  trouble  and  misery  she 
had  known,  had  she  obeyed  his  wishes  for  the  time, 
and  by  mild  persuasion  and  gentle  words,  and  all  those 
little  arts  which  women  know  so  well,  have  gradually 
soothed  his  jealousy,  until  at  length  it  wore  off  alto- 
gether. Would  it  have  worn  off?  Would  he  ever  have 
been  freed  from  it  ?  That  was  not  the  question  ;  but  had 
she  acted  wisely,  and  done  her  whole  duty  ?  Had  she 
done  right  in  leaving  him  ?  Had  she  done  her  best  ? 
had  she  tried  her  greatest  to  reclaim  him  from  the 
downward  course  into  which  his  footsteps  had  strayed  ? 
Was  she  blameless  ? 

Ah  !  it  was  too  late  now.  The  time  when  she  might 
have  been  able  to  have  reclaimed  him  had  passed  away 
forever.  She  could  repent  the  folly  of  those  days  now, 
but  she  could  not  call  them  back. 

"  Let  him  who  is  without  sin  among  you  cast  the 
first  stone."  We  can  never  tell  how  we  would  act, 
until  placed  in  a  position  for  acting.  It  is  folly  to  say 
we  would  do  so  and  so  in  such  and  such  a  case ;  only 
when  we  are  placed  in  the  position  can  we  know  what 
we  will  do. 
9* 


102  THE  WOELD  TO  BLAME. 

And  now  the  long  separated  husband  and  wife  stood 
face  to  face.  What  a  lifetime  they  passed  in  that  one 
moment  after  he  had  said, 

"  Mary ! " 

"  You  have  recognized  me  at  last,"  she  said,  trem- 
blingly. "  Oh,  James,  I  knew  you  the  very  moment 
my  eyes  fell  on  your  face." 

"  And  that  is  the  reason  why  I  was  not  given  up  to 
the  police,"  he  murmured.  "  I  see  it  now." 

And  then,  in  an  eager,  repentant  voice,  that  went 
straight  to  her  heart,  and  his  sunken  eyes  lit  up  with 
all  the  old  love  and  tenderness,  he  cried : 

"  Oh,  Mary  !  Mary  !  can  you  forgive  the  past  ?  " 

"  It  is  for  me  to  ask  your  forgiveness,  James,"  she 
answered,  in  a  voice  fraught  with  emotion.  "  I  have 
suffered  —  oh  !  so  much  — from  the  thought  that  I  have 
not  treated  you  rightly.  I  should  have  broken  off  my 
friendship  with  Leslie  Wyndham  when  you  told  me 
to.  But,  oh,  James,  you  did  not  know  him.  He  was 
honest,  good,  pure,  noble." 

A  change  came  over  him  as  she  spoke  of  the 
murdered  man.  He  shuddered,  and  then  said,  bit- 
terly : 

"  Why  have  you  spared  me  ?  Why  did  you  ever 
care  for  me?  Why  have  you  saved  me  from  the 
police  ?  I  forgot  that  you  are  not  my  wife.  I  forgot 
that  you  were  divorced  from  me  and  married  to  him  !" 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  "  she  cried.  "  It  is  a  lie ! 
He  loved  me,  he  aided  me,  he  would  have  married  me, 
had  I  been  divorced ;  but  I  remained  as  I  was  —  your 
wife ! " 

He  had  half  arose  in  the  bed  as  she  spoke,  his  sunken 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  103 

eyes  seeming  as  though  they  would  start  from  their 
sockets,  and  his  features  convulsed  with  unspeakable 
agony. 

He  grasped  her  arm  almost  savagely,  as  she  con- 
cluded, and  said,  hoarsely : 

"  Xo,  no !  it  cannot  be !  Say  it  is  not  so,  Mary  ! 
For  God's  sake,  say  it  is  not  so  !  " 

His  vehemence,  the  tortured  expression  on  his  face, 
startled  and  mystified  her ;  and  for  a  moment  she  was 
silent.  Then  she  answered  solemnly  : 

"  It  is  the  truth,  James ;  I  swear  it  is  the  truth.  He 
was  only  my  friend.  You  are  dying,  James,  and  I  for- 
give all  the  suffering  you  have  caused  me," 

But  his  hand  relaxed  the  savage  grasp  of  her  arm, 
and  he  fell  back,  covering  his  face  with  both  hands, 
crying  in  agony : 

"  Good  God  !  Only  her  friend  !  What  have  I  done ! 
Oh,  God  !  what  have  I  done !  Mary,  Mary !  God 
help  me  !  I  murdered  him  !  " 

The  truth  flashed  across  her  mind  in  an  instant. 
That  which,  when  reading  in  a  novel,  she  had  deemed 
utterly  impossible,  was  not  a  fiction,  but  was  a  truth. 

She  started  with  horror.  She  could  only  utter  one 
word  with  white,  blanched  lips,  while  he  moaned  and 
tossed  about  the  bed  in  the  most  excruciating  torture : 

"  YOU ! " 

"  Oh,  Mary  !  Mary  !  forgive  me  !  You  shrink  from 
me  with  fear  !  Don't  —  don't  look  at  me  so  !  Have 
mercy  !  have  mercy  !  It  is  terrible !  oh,  it  is  terrible  ! 
You  tremble  with  horror !  Your  husband  is  a  mur- 
derer! Oh,  Alary!  Mary!  do  not  judge  me  too 
hastily,  too  harshly.  Listen  to  me;  hear  the  whole 


104  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

truth.  Oh,  Mary !  I  thought  you  were  divorced  from 
me  and  married  to  him !  I  thought  he  had  wronged 
me,  and  I  was  mad,  mad  !  Have  mercy !  have  mercy !" 

And  then  he  made  a  terrible  confession  that  froze 
the1  blood  in  her  veins  as  she  stood  before  him,  rigid, 
motionless,  as  if  carved  out  of  stone. 

When  he  had  finished,  she  could  have  cursed  him. 
But,  ah,  even  as  the  words  are  on  her  lips,  the  angels 
of  Love  and  Charity  whispec  in  her  ears,  and  beg  her 
not  to  speak  them.  They  whisper  to  her  to  be  calm  ; 
they  tell  her  what  she  must  do;  they  say,  "  Forgive, 
as  you  would  be  forgiven." 

And  he  is  tossing  wildly  about  in  his  agony,  and 
praying  for  her  pardon. 

"  Oh,  Mary !  Mary  !  forgive  me !  I  am  dying,  and 
I  was  mad  !  mad  !  Mercy  !  have  mercy  !  " 

Yes,  he  is  dying,  and  she  remembers  the  temptations 
that  have  assailed  him.  Shall  she  withhold  her  par- 
don from  him  now  ?  Shall  she  judge  him  when  soon 
he  will  stand  before  the  throne  of  Him  who  alone  can 
rightfully  judge  ? 

"  The  tempter  is  worse  than  the  tempted,"  she  says, 
solemnly.  "  But  it  was  murder  —  it  was  murder  — 
would  have  been  murder,  even  if  he  had  wronged  you 
in  the  most  cruel  way  one  can  wrong  another.  You 
had  no  right  to  take  his  life.  If  he  had  done  wrong, 
your  doing  wrong  could  not  make  that  right.  Murder 
is  murder,  and  only  He  alone  who  gave  life  has  a  right 
to  take  it.  No  man  has  a  right  to  take  the  preroga- 
tive of  God  in  his  own  hands,  or  to  take  the  life 

which  he  cannot  return." 
******* 


THE  WORLD  TO   BLAME.  105 

She  has  called  Mr.  Smithson  up.  She  has  told  him 
all  calmly,  and  of  her  intentions  for  the  future. 

James  Farly's  confession  has  been  written  out.  The 
pen  is  placed  in  his  hand  for  signature,  and  he  scrawls 
his  name  with  trembling  fingers  at  the  bottom  of  the 
page.  They  sign  as  witnesses. 

It  is  done ;  and  Mary  Farly  holds  in  her  hand  the 
secret  of  Leslie  Wyndham's  murder,  and  the  proof  of 
the  innocence  of  his  son. 

"  You  forgive  me,  Mary,  you  forgive  me  ?  "  he  cries, 
wildly.  "  I  loved  you,  oh,  I  loved  you  !  " 

"  You  have  sinned,  sinned  deeply.  I,  too,  have 
done  wrong.  I  cannot  judge  you.  If  it  will  lighten 
your  sorrow,  know  that  I  forgive  you.  I  have  a  duty 
before  me.  I  must  clear  Frederick  Wyndhan's  name 
of  the  obloquy  which  we  have  helped  cast  upon  it. 
We  are  both  to  blame,  and  I  hope  God  will  forgive 
you  as  I  do.  Pray  to  Him,  pray  to  Him,  in  the  few 
short  hours  that  remain  to  you." 
**####* 

She  was  sitting  by  the  bedside  watching  him,  when 
she  observed  the  change  that  was  taking  place.  The 
pallor  of  death  was  slowly  creeping  over  his  face.  He 
lay  silently  and  quietly,  holding  her  hand  in  his.  She 
felt  his  hand  growing  colder  and  colder.  The  old  love 
welled  up  in  her  heart  as  she  gazed  on  the  wreck  of 
the  man  she  had  known  in  happier  days.  The  words 
of  the  immortal  bard  came  to  her  mind : 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them  ; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones. 

She  had  known  suffering  and  agony,  but  what  torture 
must  he  have  undergone  !     Who  can  say  ? 


106  THE  WOULD  TO  BLAME. 

Whatever  of  suffering  this  man  had  caused  her,  she 
had  known  him  when  he  was  in  the  pride  of  manhood 
and  happiness;  and  in  that  solemn  moment,  in  the 
presence  of  the  mighty  bridegroom,  Death,  she  forgave 
him  all. 

He  opened  his  eyes  suddenly,  and  looked  at  her. 
She  stooped  to  hear  what  he  might  say.  He  essayed 
to  speak,  but  could  not.  She  heard  the  death-rattle  in 
his  throat ;  he  shuddered,  and  then  she  felt  the  hand 
that  held  hers  slowly  relax  its  hold.  She  kissed  him 
once,  while  her  heart  seemed  as  if  it  was  breaking ;  a 
smile  of  ineifable  happiness  passed  over  his  face  as 
their  lips  met  for  the  last  time ;  something  like  a  sigh 
escaped  him,  and  then  he  was  dead. 

He,  whose  life  had  been  embittered  and  wrecked  on 
the  shoals  of  passion,  died  quietly,  with  a  happy  smile 
on  his  face,  as  though  he  was  passing  into  a  delightful 
dream. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
JAMES  FAULT'S  CONFESSION. 

WE  must  reiterate  that  this  is  not  a  sensational  story, 
unless  the  truth  can  be  said  to  be  sensational. 
We  prefer  to  give  James  Farly's  confession  in  our 
own  words.     As   he  told   it,  the   reader  may  easily 
imagine  that  it  was  frequently  interlarded  by  pitiful 
cries  and  laments,  and  many  words  of  poignant  self- 
reproach. 


THE    WORLD  TO  BLAME.  107 

We  go  back  to  that  eventful  night  when  James 
Farly  arrived  at  his  wretched  home,  to  find  that  his 
wife  had,  at  last,  deserted  him. 

For  some  days  after,  he  remained  perfectly  sober. 
There  was  a  sense  of  utter  desolation  about  him.  He 
could  not  conceal  the  fact  from  himself  that  he  was  to 
blame ;  that  he  had  himself  to  thank  for  what  he  now 
suffered. 

It  is  said  that  it  is  very  easy  to  make  ourselves  be- 
lieve that  which  we  are  anxious  and  desirous  to  believe. 
So  it  is,  but  not  immediately.  When  a  man  first  dis- 
covers himself  to  be  in  the  wrong,  he  feels  it,  and  no 
amount  of  self-reasoning  and  conscience-bribing  can 
for  some  time  afterwards  make  him  feel  satisfied  that 
he  is  or  has  been  wholly  right. 

The  first  few  days  which  followed  that  night  were 
spent  by  James  Farly  in  ceaseless  and  constant  brood- 
ing. 

The  mind,  sooner  or  later,  is  sure  to  become  in  a 
manner  more  or  less  affected  by  the  constant  nursing 
of  one  idea.  This  was  the  case  with  James  Farly. 
We  have  seen  that,  to  use  a  mild  phrase,  he  had  always 
disliked  Leslie  Wyndham.  It  did  not  take  him  long 
to  associate  the  cause  of  his  wife's  desertion  with  the 
latter.  He  came  to  look  on  him  as  the  cause  of  all  his 
troubles.  The  natural  consequence  was  that  in  a  short 
time  he  had  convinced  himself  that  he  was  not  at  all 
to  blame,  and  that  he  owed  all  that  had  come  to  pass 
to  the  man  who,  in  his  language,  "  had  come  between 
him  and  his  wife." 

The  future  depended  entirely  now  upon  his  advisers. 
The  reader  has  already  obtained  an  insight  into  the 


108  THE   WOULD  TO   BLAME. 

character  and  nature  of  this  man,  and  has  seen  how 
weak-minded  he  was,  and  how  liable,  in  consequence, 
to  be  controlled  by  others. 

This  man,  who  had  once  known  luxury  and  wealth, 
soon  became  a  beggarly  outcast.  The  very  people  who 
had  praised  and  flattered  him  in  his  days  of  affluence 
now  passed  him  by  without  a  glance  of  recognition. 
The  very  men  who  had  fed  upon  his  generosity,  even 
his  low  associates,  and  the  dealers  in  alcoholic  poi- 
son, refused  to  extend  him  a  helping  hand.  He  was 
shunned  like  some  loathsome  viper,  and  the  craving 
appetite  for  drink  once  more  came  over  him.  Every 
cent  that  he  managed  to  earn  by  doing  odd  work  went 
into  the  till  of  some  dram-shop. 

Wandering,  one  day,  into  one  of  the  lowest  grog- 
geries  that  abound  in  the  not  over-aristocratic  purlieus 
of  Water  Street,  he  was  accosted  by  a  man  who,  although 
he  will  figure  to  a  great  extent  in  the  events  which  are 
to  follow,  it  is  as  impossible  for  us  to  say  who  he  really 
was,  as  it  would  have  been  for  any  one  who  knew  him 
to  have  told. 

He  was  one  of  those  mysterious  personages  we  some- 
times meet,  who,  by  some  occult  influence,  manage  to 
gain  access  to  the  highest  as  well  as  to  the  lowest 
circles  of  society. 

This  man  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  James  Farly 
long  before  the  time  of  which  we  are  writing,  and  with 
that  peculiar  gift  which  some  people  have,  had  not 
only  read  his  character  at  a  glance,  but  gained  a  power- 
ful influence  over  him. 

Now,  nobody  had  ever  seen  Mr.  Charles  Williams, 
as  he  called  himself  at  this  time,  in  a  state  of  intoxica- 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  109 

tion.  He  could  be  the  gentleman  among  gentlemen, 
and  per  contra.  Everybody  appeared  to  know  him, 
though  to  many,  for  various  peculiar  reasons  that  they 
would  not  have  cared  to  have  made  public,  his  acquaint- 
ance was  anything  but  desirable  or  advantageous. 

Almost  unconsciously  to  himself  James  Farly  had 
told  Mr.  Charles  Williams  his  entire  history.  Mr. 
Charles  Williams  had  condoled  with  him,  said  he  knew 
Leslie  Wyndham,  and  had  assisted  James  Farly  in  hia 
downward  career. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  that  Mr.  Williams  was 
not  acting  without  a  motive.  He  did  know  Leslie 
Wyndham,  or  rather  had  known  him,  when  he  was  not 
passing  under  the  name  of  Charles  Williams.  Leslie 
Wyndham  had  come  between  him  and  an  intended 
victim ;  had  spoilt  and  foiled  one  of  his  long-cherished 
"  little  games  "  just  when  he  had  imagined  victory  cer- 
tain, and  Mr.  Williams  had  not  forgotten  it,  though 
many  years  had  intervened  since  then. 

He  was  a  man  who  boasted  that  he  never  forgot  a 
favor  nor  forgave  an  injury ;  a  dangerous  man,  who 
could  wait  for  years  and  years,  nourishing  his  hatred, 
but  never  forgetting  or  forgiving ;  a  man  who  could 
smile  and  laugh  with  you  while  murder  was  at  his 
heart.  But  he  was  a  cool,  cold-blooded,  calculating, 
prudential  villain.  Your  ignorant,  uncultured,  savage 
outlaw  is  not  to  be  feared  by  the  side  of  your  educated, 
heartless,  plotting  villain.  The  latter  by  his  knowl- 
edge and  the  main  force  of  his  mind  can  control  a  horde 
of  uneducated,  depraved  brutes. 

While  Mr.  Williams,  therefore,  might  have  liked 
nothing  better  than  to  have  killed  you,  he  could  at  the 
10 


110  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

same  time  appear  on 'the  most  friendly  terms  with  yon, 
for  he  was  too  prudent  by  far  to  run  any  risk  that 
might  place  his  precious  self  in  danger. 

We  are  looking  now,  it  must  be  remembered,  at  the 
inside  of  this  man's  character,  and  not  at  the  side  he 
presented  to  the  gaze  of  the  world.  We  desire  to  give 
a  good  insight  into  his  character,  in  order  that  you 
may  not  be  surprised  at  the  events  to  follow;  and  we 
desire  it  also  to  be  remembered  that  what  is  here  told 
in  a  few  words  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  the  work  of 
years,  done  slowly,  step  by  step,  and  began  by  hints 
which  gradually  shaped  themselves  into  open  words. 

Mr.  Williams,  to  continue,  was  an  utterly  unprin- 
cipled man,  with  no  thoughts  of  a  future  life,  little 
reverence  for  the  Bible  or  the  Creator;  no  thoughts 
that  were  not  for  and  of  self;  no  feeling  for  any  one 
but  himself.  He  had  but  one  God,  knew  but  one 
power  —  money.  For  that,  could  he  have  done  so 
without  danger  to  himself,  he  would  have  waded 
through  blood.  He  was  not  afraid  of  hanging,  but  he 
did  not  care  for  imprisonment.  Hanging  was  soon 
over;  but  why  hang  ?  said  he,  philosophically. 

He  was  a  gambler  and  a  cheat.  He  moved,  in  his 
dual  character,  among  the  upper  ten,  and  the  lower 
ten  thousand ;  played  gentleman,  gallant,  aristocrat ; 
gambler,  villain,  outcast,  just  as  the  occasion  demanded. 

And  now  to  resume.  James  Farly  had  just  been 
refused  the  poison  which  his  appetite  craved,  when  Mr. 
Williams  entered  the  drinking  den. 

Williams  was  perfectly  aware  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened to  Farly ;  but  it  suited  him  best  at  that  time  to 
be  ignorant. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  Ill 

"  Ah  !  Farly,  you  here  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  taking  him 
by  the  hand,  much  to  Farly 's  surprise  not  only  at 
seeing,  but  at  being  recognized  by  him.  "  Hello ! 
What's  happened,  old  fellow?  You  look  seedy  — 
played  out.  Come !  this  won't  do.  You  should  have 
called  on  me;  you  know  I  am  your  friend.  Come 
along  and  let  me  know  what 's  up  now.  James  Farly 
begging  for  a  drink  !  and  where  they  only  sell  slops  ! 
and  I  alive !  Come  along,  I  '11  give  you  some  of  the 
genuine  Simon  Pure." 

Farly  was  only  too  glad  to  find  a  friend ;  some  one 
who  had  known  him  in  better  days,  and  now  grasped 
him  by  the  hand  against  which  all  men's  hands  seemed 
to  be  turned.  He  had  not  expected  Williams  to  recog- 
nize him  at  all ;  but  it  was  not  a  dream.  There  was 
one  human  being,  at  least,  who  still  called  him  a  friend, 
and  so  he  did  not  offer  any  remonstrances  when  Wil- 
liams took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  out  of  the 
vile  hole. 

Williams  insisted  on  his  right  and  privilege,  as  James 
Farly's  friend,  to  take  care  of  and  share  his  home  with 
him.  And  so  he  took  him  in  charge. 

Of  course,  that  very  evening  the  deserted  husband 
told  his  benefactor  all  that  had  happened.  Williams 
was  not  surprised ;  he  had  expected  such  an  ending. 
He  hastened  to  agree  with  Farly  that  Leslie  Wyndham 
was,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  at  the  bottom  of  it."  He 
did  everything  in  his  power  to  inflame  the  passions  and 
the  hatred  of  Farly  against  the  journalist. 

"We"  (of  course,  whoever  injured  Farly  injured 
Williams)  "  have  a  score  to  settle  with  him  some  day. 
We  can  wait ;  that  will  make  the  interest  on  the  debt 


112  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

accumulate.  It  is  very  simple  to  me — excuse  me  for 
talking  plainly,  old  fellow  —  she  has  left  you  to  join 
him.  He  will  procure  her  a  divorce  somewhere,  and 
then  marry  her." 

In  this  way  the  days  passed  by.  Williams  inducted 
Farly  into  the  mysteries  of  gambling,  an  art  in  which 
he  was  aufait,  always  taking  care  to  keep  him  in  liquor, 
and  strengthen  his  hatred  for  Leslie  Wyndham. 

Gradually,  and  by  degrees,  the  master  villain  un- 
folded the  plan  his  plotting  brain  had  conceived,  to  his 
yielding  tool.  It  was  a  plan  worthy  of  the  man,  and 
at  any  other  time  would  have  made  James  Farly  recoil 
with  horror,  so  deep  and  cold-blooded  was  it. 

In  substance,  to  make  the  story  short,  and  expose  it 
in  all  its  fiendishness,  it  was  simply  this : 

Mary  Farly,  being  the  wife  of  Leslie  Wyndham,  and 
in  that  case  his  only  living  near  relation,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  his  son  Frederick,  in  the  event  of  his  death 
would  inherit  a  great  portion  of  all  he  possessed, 
especially  if  his  son  was  also  "removed."  The  plan 
was  to  murder  Leslie  Wyndham,  to  speak  plainly  — 
Mr.  Williams  used  a  much  milder  word  —  which  he 
(Williams)  would  arrange  so  that  no  suspicion  should 
or  could  attach  either  to  Farly  or  himself.  This  being 
done,  he  contracted  to  throw  suspicion  upon  Frederick, 
and  to  cause  his  arrest  and  execution,  the  principal 
object  in  doing  this  being  to  prevent  the  young  man 
from  "  causing  us  "  (i.  e.,  Williams  and  Farly)  "  any 
trouble."  Mary  Farly  would  then  come  forward,  of 
course,  and  put  in  her  claim  to  the  estate.  Then  it 
would  be  very  easy  to  have  the  divorce  set  aside  as 
fraudulent,  and  Farly,  by  this  means,  would  not  only 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  113 

accomplish  his  revenge,  but  also  would  obtain  some- 
thing more  tangible. 

All  this  was  to  be  in  consideration  of  Farly's  sign- 
ing a  paper  agreeing  to  give  to  Williams  one-half  of 
what  he  would  acquire,  upon  its  completion,  through 
his  wife.* 

Williams  did  not  fear  that  Farly  would  not  carry 
out  his  part  of  the  contract;  he  was  too  well  aware  of 
his  power  over  his  weak-minded  tool  to  fear  that. 

This  is  the  simple,  unvarnished,  bare  synopsis  of  the 
plain  details  of  this  devilish  plot,  however  abhorrent 
and  incredible  it  may  appear. 

But  it  was  necessary  to  find  out  first  whether  a  divorce 
had  been  procured  or  not.  If  it  had,  then  Mr.  Wil- 
liams felt  perfectly  sure  that  Leslie  Wyndham  and 
Mary  Farly  had  consummated  a  marriage. 

No  divorce  had  been  obtained  in  New  York ;  but 
Williams  did  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  it  had. 
He  knew  how  much  easier  it  was  to  obtain  such  a 
thing  in  other  States.  In  which,  if  any,  had  a  divorce 
been  procured  ?  In  order  to  ascertain  this,  both  time 
and  money  would  be  requisite.  So  far  as  time  was 
concerned,  there  was  no  difficulty;  but  it  would,  in  all 
probability,  require  more  capital  than  either  of  them 
possessed  or  might  possess  for  months.  The  crafty 

*  It  may  seem  rather  strange  that  a  man  like  Williams  should  have 
been  so  ignorant  of  the  law  on  the  subjects  upon  which  the  ultimate 
success  of  his  plot  depended,  and  that  he  should  have  remained  so, 
instead  of  informing  himself  what  the  law  on  those  points  really  was, 
as  he  could  easily  have  done ;  nor  can  we  account  for  this,  except  on 
the  supposition  that  his  principal  and  moving  motive  was  to  satisfy  the 
hatred  he  felt  for  Leslie  Wyndham  on  account  of  the  matters  here- 
inbefore mentioned,  and  the  pecuniary  object  merely  auxiliary.  — 
AUTHOR. 

10*  H 


114  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

brain  was  not  found  wanting  here,  though.  The  capital 
must  be  immediately  acquired,  and  by  robbery. 

Mr.  Williams  selected  a  victim  whom  he  knew 
always  kept  a  large  sum  of  money  locked  up  in  a  safe 
at  his  house,  and  they  agreed  that  in  case  of  the  detec- 
tion, by  any  mischance,  of  either  of  them,  he  would  re- 
main silent  in  regard  to  the  other. 

This  robbery  was  effected.  Williams  secured  the 
plunder,  but  Farly  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  police. 
He  kept  his  agreement  with  Williams,  and  remained 
silent.  But,  though  ably  defended,  his  trial  resulted, 
despite  Mr.  Williams'  influence,  in  a  conviction,  and 
sentence  to  five  years'  imprisonment. 

Williams  kept  in  constant  communication  with  his 
victim,  telling  him  to  keep  up  bravely  in  view  of  the 
ends  to  be  acquired,  and  that  he  had  made  a  reserve 
fund  of  the  plunder  they  had  obtained,  and  was  wait- 
ing patiently  until  he  (Farly)  was  released.  They 
could  afford  to  wait,  he  said,  and  let  the  interest  accu- 
mulate. 

At  the  expiration  of  his  sentence,  Farly  was  liberated. 
Williams  was  the  first  person  to  greet  him. 

These  years,  passed  in  prison,  and  in  contact  with 
depraved  associates  and  hardened  characters,  did  not 
do  much  to  improve  James  Farly.  This  was  another 
debt  to  be  settled  with  Leslie  Wyndham. 

He  came  out  of  the  prison  —  not  reformed.  If 
prisons  were  made  for  purposes  of  reformation,  they 
utterly  failed  of  their  object  with  James  Farly.  He 
came  out  hardened,  depraved,  more  bloodthirsty  and 
hating,  his  better  nature  seemingly  totally  warped  and 
dead.  He  did  not  blame  Williams  as  the  cause  of  his 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  115 

last  degradation,  but  rather  looked  up  to  him,  if  that 
was  possible,  more  than  ever.  The  weaker  mind  was 
completely  in  the  power  and  under  the  control  of  the 
stronger. 

The  search  for  the  divorce,  which  had  been  deferred 
so  long  through  his  imprisonment,  was  immediately 
begun.  He  was  very  impatient,  and  could  not  brook 
delay.  So  they  set  out  on  their  search  and  travels 
within  a  week  after  his  liberation. 

They  journeyed  from  one  place  to  another,  choosing 
first  the  cities  where  Williams  thought  it  most  likely 
the  divorce,  if  there  was  one,  had  been  procured.  It 
was  slow,  weary  work,  besides  being  expensive.  Their 
exchequer  was  fast  becoming  exhausted,  and,  as  yet, 
their  trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 

This  consumed  some  time.  They  stopped,  and 
gambled  with  varying  luck,  at  several  places.  But  at 
last  they  found  it.  Their  journey  was  at  an  end ;  their 
untiring  search  was  rewarded.  There  it  was,  the  posi- 
tive proof  of  Mr.  Williams'  conjectures.  The  date, 
the  year  —  everything  agreed. 

"  Mary  Farly  vs.  James  Farly.  Divorce  granted" 
Thus  spoke  the  record. 

To  New  York  again.  They  arrive,  James  Farly 
brooding  and  nursing  constantly  that  one  idea  —  re- 
venge. Revenge  on  the  man  who  had  robbed  him  of 
his  wife,  and  made  him  what  he  was.  Oh !  what  a 
glorious  revenge  his  would  be !  The  words  of  the  poet 
did  not  recur  to  him : 

Revenge  is  sweet  —  is  sweet ; 
But  it  is  a  sweet  poison ! 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  haunted  house  opposite 


THE  WOELD  TO  BLAME. 

Leslie  Wyndham's  was  taken  by  the  two  men,  Philip 
Marion  and  Thomas  Castle,  otherwise  Charles  Williams 
and  James  Farly. 

If  the  conversation  in  that  house  between  them, 
which  has  heretofore  been  recorded,  was  unintelligible 
to  our  readers,  they  will  understand  it  now. 

Suspicion  points  strongly  to  Williams  having  had 
an  accomplice  in  Leslie  Wyndham's  house.  Perhaps 
this  accomplice  did  not  know  his  principal's  object. 
However  that  may  be,  it  is  certain,  that  by  some  means, 
he  possessed  himself  of  the  razor,  which  was  afterwards 
such  a  terrible  piece  of  evidence  against  Frederick 
Wyndham,  and  gained  admittance  to  the  house  on  the 
night  he  had  selected  for  the  carrying  out  of  his  plot. 

They  were  secreted  in  the  house  when  Frederick  came 
in.  After  this  they  allowed  a  couple  of  hours  to  pass, 
until  all  became  silent  again.  Then,  removing  their 
shoes,  stealthily,  in  stocking  feet,  they  entered  their 
victim's  sanctum.  They  could  hear  his  hard  breathing. 

James  Farly,  mad  with  the  thought  of  his  vengeance, 
now  so  near  at  hand,  passed  into  the  room  where  Leslie 
Wyndham  was  sleeping,  clutching  a  heavy  revolver  by 
the  barrel,  and  gazed  with  a  fiendish  joy  upon  the  un- 
conscious sleeper's  countenance.  Not  a  spark  of  pity 
moved  him.  There  lay  the  object  of  his  long  pent-up 
hatred  ;  there  lay  the  man  who  had  caused  him  all  his 
suffering  —  the  man  who,  he  had  persuaded  himself, 
had  wronged  him  in  the  worst  possible  manner  one 
human  being  can  wrong  another. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Leslie  Wyndham  opened 
his  eyes.  They  fell  upon  the  demoniac  face  of  the  man 
standing  by  his  bedside. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  117 

He  recognized  him  instantly.  Surprise,  for  the  mo- 
ment, deprived  him  of  all  power  to  follow  his  first 
impulse,  and  cry  out.  The  next  instant  James  Farly, 
with  a  muttered  curse,  was  on  him,  one  hand  clutching 
him  with  a  grip  of  iron  by  the  throat,  and  strangling 
him. 

Never  for  a  moment,  in  the  terrible  struggle  which 
ensued,  did  the  maddened  man  loosen  his  grasp  of  his 
victim's  throat. 

The  doomed  man  struggled  desperately ;  but  not  a 
word  could  escape  his  lips.  In  his  own  house,  at  the 
dead  of  night,  he  was  being  murdered,  and  could  not 
call  for  assistance. 

This  terrible  battle  for  life  was  fought  in  silence. 
James  Farly  dealt  his  victim  blow  upon  blow  with  the 
butt  end  of  the  revolver,  and  with  all  the  desperation 
of  a  maniac. 

Williams  sprang  to  his  aid  just  in  time.  His  hand 
was  relaxing  its  grasp  of  Leslie  Wyndham's  throat. 
But  the  cry  that  arose  to  the  lips  of  the  poor  victim 
was  stifled  by  a  heavy,  terrible  blow  on  the  forehead 
from  the  revolver  Williams  carried.  Stunned  and 
unconscious,  but  not  yet  quite  dead,  he  lay  completely 
in  his  assassins'  power. 

James  Farly  would  have  stabbed  him  over  and  over 
in  his  blind  fury,  had  not  the  more  prudent  villain 
withheld  him,  and  bidding  him  not  to  let  the  blood 
spurt  on  his  clothes,  handed  him  Frederick's  razor. 

The  madman  quickly  and  with  all  his  strength  drew 
it  across  Leslie  Wyndham's  throat,  severing  it  from 
ear  to  ear. 

Then,  when  the  bloody  deed  was  accomplished,  they 


118  THE  WOULD  TO  BLAME. 

inflicted  stab  after  stab  on  the  poor  body,  being  careful 
not  to  get  any  bloodstains  on  themselves.  This  was 
done  for  the  purpose  of  making  it  appear  that  the  assas- 
sin's clothes  must,  necessarily,  have  become  stained 
with  blood,  and  that  it  did  so,  was  sufficient  proof  of 
Mr.  Williams'  sagacity  —  a  quality  he  greatly  prided 
himself  upon.  It  was  his  boast  that  he  always  "  cov- 
ered his  footsteps." 

Mr.  Williams  turned  his  attention,  when  all  again 
was  silent,  to  the  safe.  He  easily  found  the  key  in  the 
murdered  man's  coat-pocket. 

The  safe  was  open  !  Before  him  was  the  object  of 
his  worship,  gold ;  yet  he  did  not  touch  it.  No !  He 
commenced  ransacking  and  tossing  the  papers  about, 
to  give  the  impression  that  the  assassin's  object  was  to 
secure  a  particular  paper,  and  not  robbery.  How  well 
he  succeeded  we  know. 

At  last  he  came  across  the  document  he  had  hoped 
to  find.  It  was  endorsed,  "  Last  will  and  testament  of 
Leslie  Wyndham." 

His  success  was,  so  far,  all  that  he  could  have  de- 
sired. He  thrust  the  will  into  his  capacious  coat- 
pocket,  and  having  seen  everything  placed  in  the 
position  in  which  he  wished  them  to  be  found,  and 
followed  by  James  Farly,  who  had,  during  the  whole 
time  his  confederate  was  operating  at  the  safe,  re- 
mained gazing  with  a  savage  smile  on  the  face,  gashed 
and  mutilated,  of  the  man  whom  he  had  murdered, 
constantly  murmuring,  "  Revenged  !  revenged  !  "  left 
the  house  in  the  same  silence  and  secrecy  in  which 
they  had  entered  it. 

What  followed  has  been  heretofore  detailed. 


THE   WORLD   TO  BLAME.  119 

In  the  immediate  excitement,  Mr.  Williams  man- 
aged, by  the  same  covert  means  which  had  enabled 
him  to  obtain  it,  to  secrete  Frederick  Wyndham's 
razor  in  the  place  where  it  was  afterwards  found. 

Before  proceeding  further  to  carry  out  his  scheme, 
Mr.  Williams  had  the  prudence  to  allow  some  days  to 
elapse. 

Of  course,  no  suspicion  entered  any  one's  mind 
when  Philip  Marton  said  he  "would  like  to  have  the 
villain  who  did  it,  that  he  might  torture  him  to  death 
by  inches." 

Why  should  any  one  suspect  the  rich,  elegant 
Mr.  Marton  ?  But  it  was  Mr.  Marton  who  industri- 
ously circulated  the  hints  in  regard  to  Frederick 
Wyndham,  who  started  never-sleeping  suspicion,  and 
who  caused  the  articles  we  have  quoted  from  to  be  in- 
serted and  circulated  by  the  press. 

As  we  know,  everything  worked  to  his  entire  satis- 
faction, and  James  Farly  (otherwise  Thomas  Castle), 
now  returned  to  his  old  state  of  continual  intoxication, 
gazed  on  the  master  villain  with  a  feeling  akin  to,  if 
not  exactly  awe. 

But  when  time  passed,  and  Mary  Farly  did  not 
come  forward  to  lay  claim  to  the  murdered  man's 
estate,  Mr.  Philip  Marton  grew  uneasy,  and  when  a 
still  further  time  elapsed  and  the  public  administrator 
took  charge  of  the  effects,  he  became  more  and  more 
uneasy. 

Suddenly  a  new  thought  struck  him.  In  the  ex- 
citement of  the  moment  he  had  forgotten  to  make  any 
inquiries  as  to  the  Mary  Farly  who  had  procured  a 
divorce,  and  now  it  flashed  across  his  mind  that  it 


120  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

might,  after  all,  have  been  a  simple  coincidence. 
Determined  to  find  out  and  satisfy  himself  at  once,  he 
took  a  trip,  keeping  Farly  in  ignorance  of  his  object, 
to  the  city  where  he  had  found  the  record.  It  proved, 
of  course,  as  he  had  feared.  All  his  trouble  and 
plotting  had  been  wasted  and  in  vain.  But  there  was 
no  use  in  repining  or  cursing  his  luck,  and  he  imme- 
diately returned  to  New  York.  He  said  nothing  what- 
ever on  the  subject,  but  immediately  proceeded  to  rid 
himself  of  his  blind  follower. 

Left  alone  again,  and  completely  in  the  other's 
power,  James  Farly  rapidly  sank  to  the  level  from 
which  Mr.  Williams  had  taken  him.  He  dared  not 
think,  but  drowned  brain  and  memory  in  the  alcoholic 
poison. 

It  was  in  this  state  of  degradation  and  abject 
poverty  that  he  planned  the  robbery  of  Smithson's 
cottage,  which,  as  has  been  seen,  resulted  in  his  de- 
tection.* 

*  In  closing  this  chapter,  we  desire  to  say  that  we  are  fully  aware 
of  the  inconsistency  between  the  "cool,  calculating,  prudential 
villain  "  we  have  said  Mr.  Williams  was,  and  his  character  as  viewed 
solely  in  the  light  of  the  part  he  enacted  in  the  murder  of  Leslie 
Wyndham.  His  whole  plot  was  founded  on  suppositions  which,  how- 
ever, after  the  finding  of  the  record  of  divorce  between  Mary  Farly 
and  James  Farly,  had,  with  him,  as  much  weight  as  truths ;  his  ideas 
of  the  law  were  incorrect,  and  his  manner  of  proceeding  rather 
strange.  But  is  there  any  accounting  for  the  inconsistencies  of 
human  nature,  and  do  we  not  often  find  the  wisest  men  making 
the  most  simple  errors  ? 

The  only  way  in  which  we  can  account  for  Williams  falling  into 
these  errors  is,  as  we  have  before  stated,  on  the  ground  that  his  prin- 
cipal and  moving  motive  was  to  satisfy  the  hatred  he  felt  for  his  vic- 
tim, and  that  the  pecuniary  motive,  strong  as  that  was  with  him,  was 
merely  auxiliary.  This  is  the  only  explanation  we  can  give,  and  if 
the  reader  thinks  it  worse  than  none  at  all,  and  wonders  why  we 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  121 

CHAPTER  XV. 

SELF   AND   DUTY. 

SUCH,  in  short,  was  the  substance  of  the  terrible 
confession  which  James  Farly  made  with  his  dying 
breath  and  signed  with  his  last  strength,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  woman  who  was  his  wife  and  the  friend 
whom  his  victim  had  provided  for  her.  Such  was  the 
paper  which  Mary  Farly  carried  in  the  bosom  of  her 
dress,  and  which  proved  the  innocence  of  the  law's 
victim  —  the  victim  of  popular  excitement  —  poor, 
ill-fated  Frederick  AVyndham. 

What  a  great  task  this  confession  imposed  upon 
Mary  Farly !  It  rested  on  her  to  prove  the  innocence 
of  Frederick  Wyndham,  and  to  rescue  his  name  from 
the  obloquy  which  was  now  attached  to  it. 

The  long  and  terrible  struggle  between  self  and 
duty  carried  on  in  her  breast  in  the  silence  of  the  long 
night  which  followed  James  Farly's  decease,  left  an 
impression  that  only  death  eradicated. 

Self  asked  her  why  she  should  trouble  herself 
further?  The  dead  could  not  be  recalled  to  life. 

could  not  have  constructed  this  story  so  as  to  have  prevented  our 
feeling  any  necessity  for  this  note,  we  can  only  reiterate  that  ours  is 
a  matter-of-fact  romance,  and  that  all  the  events  narrated  in  this 
chapter  have  actually  occurred  and  passed  into  history,  and  that  the 
only  deviation  from  the  facts  which  we  have  made  has  been  to  change 
the  names  of  the  parties,  and  the  fate,  or,  rather,  the  lives  of  the 
murderers  after  accomplishing  their  crime. 

In  the  case  in  which  the  facts  here  related  came  to  light,  they  were 
both  tried,  found  guilty,  and  executed.  — AUTHOR. 
11 


122  THE   WOULD  TO  BLAME. 

Why  inflict  suffering  on  herself?  Why  not  let  the 
whole  thing  rest  where  it  was,  to  be  buried  in  oblivion, 
and  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead?  Duty,  in  its 
stern,  unwavering  voice,  whispered,  "  Spare  not  thy- 
self! You  have  been  an  innocent  cause  of  their  death. 
On  you  rests  the  responsibility  of  clearing  the  mystery, 
whatever  of  suffering  it  may  entail  on  you,  whatever 
sacrifices  you  may  be  compelled  to  make.  They  who 
conceal  a  crime  are  as  bad  as  they  who  commit  it. 
Will  you  regard  yourself,  or  will  you  think  of  the 
dead,  and  the  duty  you  owe  to  God  to  see  that  inso- 
much as  lies  in  your  power  j  ustice  is  done  ?  " 

If  she  regards  the  voice  of  duty,  she  must  find 
Philip  Marton,  and  compel  him  to  verify  James 
Early 's  confession;  for  otherwise  it  was  not  and  could 
not  be  complete.  It  would  be  merely  regarded  as  the 
ravings  of  a  madman  or  as  a  sensational  story.  But 
to  find  Philip  Marton  —  what  a  hopeless  task  this 
seemed  !  She  must  find  a  man  she  had  never,  to  her 
knowledge,  seen,  and  of  whom  she  had  not  the  slight- 
est description.  Even  his  name,  like  a  kaleidoscope, 
was  constantly  changing.  And  this  man,  too,  was  no 
ordinary  person. 

Self  cried  again  and  pleaded  strongly.  Duty,  un- 
compromising and  immovable,  repeated,  "Spare  not 
thyself!" 

Oh,  what  agony,  what  misery,  what  torture  she  suf- 
fered that  night !  Years  passed  in  minutes.  But,  with 
the  help  of  Him  who  ruleth,  self  was  flung  aside,  and 
duty  conquered. 

Will  she  find  Philip  Marton  ? 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  123 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
"DUST  THOU  ART,  TO  DUST  RETURNETH." 

HI  HE  hot  summer's  day  is  drawing  to  a  close.  Slowly 
J-  the  great  Sun,  gleaming  like  a  ball  of  fire,  is  set- 
ting in  the  distant  west,  tinging  the  horizon  with  a 
reddish  golden  hue;  the  pale  Queen  of  Night  can 
be  faintly  seen  gazing  at  her  king  whose  reign  is  end- 
ing. The  air  is  redolent  of  a  soft,  rich  sweetness ;  the 
perfume  of  the  tuberose  is  borne  on  the  cool,  refresh- 
ing breeze  that  ever  and  anon  rustles  the  leaves  of  the 
majestic  oak,  and  sways  the  slender  branches  of  the 
mourning  weeping  willows.  No  sound  disturbs  the 
quiet ;  everything  is  still  and  silent  as  they  who  rest 
calmly  here  sleeping  the  never-ending  sleep,  for  this  is 
a  city  of  the  dead.  Here  and  there  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  fall  on  a  cold  white  monument  of  marble 
which  marks  the  resting-place  of  somebody's  dead. 

"  Sacred  to  the  memory  of ,"  we  read,  and  know 

that  some  poor  mortal  has  passed  before  the  judgment- 
seat  of  his  Maker. 

What  was  his  life  ?  Was  he  happy,  or  was  it  his 
happiest  moment  when  they  brought  him  here  and 
covered  him  with  the  mother  earth  from  which  he  had 
sprung  ? 

After  all,  what  a  frail  tenement  we  live  in !  what  a 
short  lease  we  hold  ! 

We  are  born,  we  laugh,  we  weep, 
We  love,  we  droop,  we  die. 


324  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

What  are  our  thoughts  as  we  gaze  on  this  home  of 
the  dead?  Here  is  a  proud,  tall  monument;  there, 
only  a  small  mound  with  a  number  written  on  a  piece 
of  wood  thrust  into  the  earth,  tells  who  sleeps  beneath 
to  them  he  has  left  behind  to  mourn  him.  Even  in 
this  sacred  place  the  pomp  of  wealth  rears  its  head. 

What  are  we  thinking  of?  This  is  no  place  for 
earthly  thoughts;  angels  are  guarding  this  spot. 
Thoughts  of  death  and  the  mystery  which  must  for- 
ever remain  unsolved,  the  mystery  of  the  Hereafter,  are 
uppermost  in  the  mind  now. 

We  look  upon  the  heavens, 

And  they  are  clear  and  blue, 
And  in  the  liquid  ether  the  eye 

Of  God  shines  through. 

All  earthly  things  are  forgotten  in  the  presence  of 
the  kingdom  of  Death ;  these  are  holy  images  that  flit 
before  us  now. 

How  quiet  all  is !  We  are  breathing  a  holier,  purer 
atmosphere  here ;  for  this  short  time  let  us  think  of 
God.  Soon  we  must  go  back  and  commingle  with  the 
world ;  here  let  us  rest  and  think. 

To  this  complexion  we  must  come  at  last. 

Poor,  proud  mortals  !  What  are  ye  in  the  presence 
of  Death  ?  What  are  ye  that  ye  should  dare  dispute 
His  words? 

Oh!  come  with  me  here;  let  us  not  disturb  the 
silence.  We  are  out  of  the  world  now :  this  is  a  better 
place  ;  this  spot  is  holy  ground ;  angels  hover  over  it ; 
God  is  here. 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  125 

No  more;  they  who  sleep  here  have  done  forever 
with  care,  suffering,  passion.  The  world  is  naught  to 
them;  it  cannot  injure,  it  cannot  help  them.  They 
have  parted  with  life  and  trouble ;  no  care,  no  grief, 
no  sorrow,  can  reach  them  now.  He  who  sleeps  beneath 
this  grand  monument  is  no  better  than  he  who  rests 
beneath  this  simple  mound ;  they  are  equal.  Poor  and 
rich  stand  alike  in  the  presence  of  God;  all  are  His  chil- 
dren, for  His  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and  He  is  Love. 

Are  we  thinking  of  those  exquisite  lines  of  the  poet's 
inspired  pen  ? 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow,  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

******* 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Alike  await  th'  inevitable  hour. 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

******* 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

How  grandly  beautiful  the  poem  is !  We  can  close 
our  eyes  and  see  the  picture  so  faithfully  described 
before  us. 

We  can  see  God  in  everything ;  but  it  is  the  grave- 
11* 


126  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

yard  that  makes  us  think  of  Him ;  it  is  the  graveyard 
that  inspires  solemn  thoughts,  for  here  we  are  amidst 
them  who  have  breathed  and  lived  with  us,  and  who 
have  solved  the  mystery  of  the  hereafter,  which  it 
remains  for  us,  sooner  or  later,  to  solve. 

But,  hark,  here  comes  another  funeral  cortege. 
Here  is  the  carriage  of  death  containing  all  that  re- 
mains of  a  human  being  —  the  poor  clay  —  followed 
by  the  mourners.  They  are  few.  The  chief  mourner 
is  a  woman,  robed  in  black  —  death's  insignia.  The 
marks  of  care  and  sorrow  are  indelibly  impressed  on 
her  brow  and  face ;  no  tears  are  in  her  eyes  —  she  can- 
not weep.  Her  grief  is  too  deep  for  tears  —  they  are 
denied  her.  Does  she  grieve  the  less  that  she  does  not 
weep  ?  No  !  no !  Grief  which  can  find  vent  in  tears, 
finds  relief.  Grief  which  is  hidden  from  all  eyes  save 
God's  is  all  the  more  felt. 

See !  they  stop.  And  now  they  take  the  coffin  from 
the  hearse  and  bear  it  along  the  pathway.  The  sun's 
rays  fall  on  a  little  group  standing  around  a  new-made 
grave. 

The  holy  words  of  God  are  solemnly  spoken.  The 
last  look  upon  the  face  of  the  dead  has  been  taken. 
The  features  are  calm  in  their  repose.  He  seems  to  be 
sleeping.  This  is  death  ! 

The  lid  of  the  coffin  is  screwed  down,  and  the  face 
is  hidden  forever.  Slowly  they  lower  the  narrow,  last 
home  that  he  shall  ever  know.  It  is  small ;  he  wants 
no  more.  *  *  *  It  is  done.  The  earth  falls  upon 
the  coffin  with  a  rattling  sound ;  the  grave-diggers  hide 
it  from  sight.  The  mound  is  formed,  the  last  dread 
ceremonies  are  over. 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  127 

Silently  the  mourners  turn.  They  have  left  him 
here.  The  rumbling  sound  of  the  carriage  wheels  dies 
out  in  the  distance ;  all  is  silent  again. 

The  moon  is  rising  higher  and  higher;  the  sun  is 
sinking  deeper  and  deeper  in  the  horizon. 

All  is  quiet.  He  is  at  rest.  No  more  suffering,  no 
more  care,  no  more  anguish,  no  more  passion.  Death 
has  conquered  all.  There  is  rest  for  him  at  last  —  rest 
in  the  grave. 

See !  the  day  is  nearly  spent ;  and  as  the  king  of 
light  sinks  behind  the  reddish,  golden-hued  clouds,  his 
last  rays  fall  upon  the  new-made  grave,  where  reposes 
all  that  remains  of  him  who  was  once  known  as  James 
Farly. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    LION   OF  THE   DAY. 

FIVE  years  have  passed  since  James  Farly  took 
his  last  look  of  "  earth,  and  sun,  and  day,"  and 
Mary  Farly,  sitting  alone  at  the  window  of  this  grand 
mansion,  hears  the  sounds  of  laughter  and  mirth  of 
the  gay  party  enjoying  themselves  beneath  her,  and 
thinks  of  the  past. 

Her  eyes  are  fixed  on  pale  Luna,  surrounded  by  her 
satellites,  and  sailing  over  the  cloudless  sky  in  all  her 
soft  brilliancy. 

Five  years  have  passed  since  her  husband's  death, 
and  what  has  she  accomplished  towards  the  object  for 


128  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

which  alone  she  lives  ?  Nothing !  absolutely  nothing ! 
All  her  endeavors  to  trace  and  discover  Philip  Marton, 
since  she  has  made  her  residence  with  the  Dervilles, 
have  been  in  vain.  She  is  as  far  from  him  as  ever, 
and  she  has  almost  given  up  the  search  for  him  in 
despair.  There  is  everything  here  to  make  her  happy ; 
they  are  all  very  attentive  to  her.  Poor  May,  who, 
with  the  elasticity  of  youth,  aided  by  the  great  con- 
soler, Time,  has  recovered  in  great  part  from  the 
shadow  which  had  threatened  to  blight  her  life  forever, 
clings  to  her  with  a  daughter's  affection.  Her  every 
wish  has  but  to  be  expressed  to  be  gratified.  She  has 
everything  in  the  way  of  comfort  that  she  can  desire, 
and  yet  she  is  not  happy.  Her  youth  has  passed  away, 
and  she  is  growing  old  ;  indeed,  she  looks  years  older 
than  she  really  is.  But  the  peace  which  she  had  hoped 
to  enjoy  in  her  age  is  denied  her.  The  grave  alone 
offers  her  rest.  Yet  she  must  live  —  live  to  redeem 
Frederick  "Wyndham's  name.  His  life  is  gone;  it 
cannot  be  given  back  to  him.  All  that  she  can  do  is 
the  mockery  of  removing  the  obloquy  attached  to  his 
name,  and  which  otherwise  always  will  be. 

And  here  she  sits  alone,  heedless  of  the  gay  party 
dancing,  laughing,  joking,  flirting,  and  amusing  them- 
selves beneath  her.  These  amusements  have  lost  all 
charms  for  her.  She  has  feigned  an  excuse  to  be  left 
alone. 

The  parlors  are  crowded  with  gay  merry-makers  of 
both  sexes;  for  this  is  the  night  of  May  Derville's 
party. 

Her  parents  have  done  everything  in  their  power  to 
keep  her  thoughts  from  dwelling  on  the  sad  fate  of  her 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  129 

dead  lover  —  and  with  partial  success.  They  rightly 
thought  she  was  young  and  might  meet  another  to  suit 
her  fancy,  and  marry  yet.  Another  person  thought 
so,  too. 

But,  see,  the  dance  is  over;  and  now,  while  some 
promenade  up  and  down  the  spacious  parlors,  the 
others  seat  themselves  and  engage  in  conversation. 
They  are  all  apparently  enjoying  themselves.  But 
where  is  May  ?  If  you  will  come  with  us,  you  will 
see  her,  a  shawl  wrapped  around  her  petite  form,  en- 
joying the  evening  air,  and  talking  seriously  with  the 
attentive  gentleman  who  sits  by  her  side  on  the  bal- 
cony —  Mr.  Charles  Wilton. 

Mr.  Wilton  is  the  "  lion  of  the  day,"  as  they  say  in 
society.  He  has  been  paying  his  attentions  to  the 
young  heiress  for  some  time,  and  it  is  whispered  that 
he  is  a  favored  one. 

Bright  and  cultivated,  able  to  converse  on  almost 
any  subject,  witty,  sarcastic,  polite,  said  to  be  wealthy, 
besides  being  handsome  and  a  character  in  his  way, — 
Mr.  Charles  Wilton  was  the  centre  of  attraction  wher- 
ever he  graciously  deigned  to  make  an  appearance. 

Singular  to  say  —  for  ladies'  favorites  are  not  gen- 
erally liked  by  their  own  sex  —  Mr.  Wilton  was  a 
favorite  with  everybody,  ladies  and  gentlemen  alike. 

To  May  Derville  he  was  an  enigma.  She  both 
respected  and  admired  him.  He  exercised  over  her  a 
strange  and  utterly  inexplicable  influence.  She  liked 
to  converse  with  him  and  draw  out  his  opinions  and 
ideas  on  various  subjects  ;  and  while  she  often  differed 
with  him,  she  always  listened  to  his  remarks  with 
deference  and  attention. 

I 


130  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

"  You  ask  me,  Miss  Derville,"  he  was  saying,  "  for 
my  opinions  in  regard  to  religion.  It  is  a  subject 
which  I  never  care  to  discuss,  because  it  is  unsuscep- 
tible of  positive  proof.  I  would  rather,  therefore,  talk 
of  anything  else,  unless,  using  a  lady's  prerogative, 
you  insist." 

"  I  would  like  to  know  what  you  think  on  the  sub- 
ject, very  much,  Mr.  Wilton,"  she  answered ;  "  but, 
of  course,  if  it  is  objectionable  to  you  we  will  let  it 
drop." 

"  I  see  you  are  too  polite  to  insist,  while  you  ar- 
dently desire  to  know,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Am  I 
not  right?" 

"  I  confess  you  are,"  she  replied,  frankly. 

"  As  an  Indian  would  say,  Miss  Derville,  your 
tongue  is  straight." 

"  Thanks  for  the  compliment.  I  always  endeavor 
to  speak  plainly,  though,  I  have  been  told,  it  is  not 
always  the  best  policy." 

"  When  people  speak  out  plainly,  and  say  what  they 
mean,  my  dear  Miss  Derville,  all  danger  of  a  mis- 
understanding is  avoided ;  and,  therefore,  as  you  de- 
sire it,  I  cannot  be  so  ungentlemanly  as  to  deny  your 
request,  for  I  am  always  happy  when  I  can  do  any- 
thing for  you.  I  know  that,  however  ridiculous  my 
opinion  may  appear  to  you,  you  will  not  laugh  at  me." 

"  You  are  very  complimentary,  Mr.  Wilton ;  but 
you  underrate  yourself.  You  always  speak  so  wisely 
and  are  so  well  informed  on  everything,  that  it  gives 
me  great  pleasure  to  listen  to  you  and  try  to  com- 
prehend, by  means  of  the  little  brains  I  have,  your 
meaning." 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  131 

"You  cannot  take  more  pleasure  in  listening  to  me, 
Miss  Derville,  than  I  take  in  conversing  with  you. 
Ladies  (excuse  me  for  disparaging  your  sex)  are,  as  a 
general  rule,  so  frivolous  and  unable  to  say  anything, 
—  so  false  is  the  education  they  usually  receive,  —  ex- 
cept about  dress,  fashion,  and  other  kindred  subjects, 
that  most  men  of  mind  hesitate  before  saying  anything 
to  them  of  a  serious  nature.  This  is  the  reason  why 
your  scholar  is  not  generally  a  ladies'  man.  But  you, 
Miss  May,  are  an  exception  to  the  rule.  It  is  well  to 
be  able  to  suit  one's  self  to  the  capabilities  of  every 
one ;  to  be  able  to  talk  fashion,  to  say  silly  words, 
nonsense,  little  nothings,  and  to  converse  on  serious, 
sober,  intellectual  subjects;  it  all  depends  on  the  per- 
son you  are  speaking  with,  and  a  man  or  woman  who 
is  able  to  suit  himself,  or  herself,  to  others  and  to  cir- 
cumstances is  pretty  certain  to  be  a  general  favorite." 

"  While  I  partly  agree  with  you,"  said  May,  "  I  yet 
must  differ.  There  are  plenty  of  women  who  are  just 
as  capable  as  men ;  and  while  there  are  any  number 
who  are  as  you  say,  you  must  yet  remember  that  the 
greater  proportion  of  your  own  sex  are  no  better.  I 
repeat,  then,  that  there  are  any  number  of  women  fully 
as  capable  as  men,  only  —  " 

"  Only,  like  the  needle  in  the  haystack,  they  are 
hard  to  find.  But  then,  again,  probably  these  capable 
women,  I  suppose,  may  have  the  same  idea  of  my  sex." 

"  The  fault  is  more  with  the  parents  than  with  the 
children,  I  think,  Mr.  Wilton." 

"  In  that  regard  you  are,  to  a  certain  extent,  right. 
The  children  of  the  poor  in  many  cases  are  taken  away 
from  school  at  an  early  age,  being  compelled  to  work 


132  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

for  a  living,  while  others  never  go  at  all.  The  chil- 
dren of  the  rich,  again,  are  often  humored  too  much. 
A  parent  is  apt  to  believe  a  child,  without  listening  at 
all  to  the  teacher.  This  works  a  vast  amount  of  harm, 
for  the  teachers  in  a  private,  fashionable  school,  to 
which  the  greater  number  of  wealthy  people,  especially 
if  they  be  shoddies,  send  their  children,  or  else  have 
teachers  at  home,  know  that  they  are  dependent  upon 
their  scholars,  who  are  consequently  apt  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  their  situation.  For  this  reason  I  think 
public  schools  are  greatly  to  be  preferred.  There  is 
one  thing,  however,  which  I  never  thought  proper, 
and  that  is  the  habit  of  making  teachers  presents. 
Not  that  I  begrudge  the  teacher,  whose  life,  at  the  best, 
is  a  hard  one  ;  but  the  poorer  scholars,  who  are  either 
unable  or  to  whom  it  is  a  great  burden  to  contribute 
to  make  the  teacher  a  present,  are,  in  a  manner,  looked 
down  upon  by  their  richer  classmates,  and  favoritism 
is  apt  to  be  shown.  Besides,  it  hurts  the  feelings  of 
the  poor,  and  we  should  always  regard  the  feelings  of 
others.  There  are  a  great  many  corrections  needed  in 
our  present  educational  system,  and  the  first  remedy 
should  be  to  make  education  compulsory." 
"  I  agree  with  you  there,  Mr.  Wilton." 
"  Another  thing,  Miss  Derville.  Children,  especially 
young  girls,  are  taken  from  school  too  early,  and  when 
their  education  is  merely — if  I  may  use  the  phrase  — 
glossed  over.  They  know  a  little  of  this,  a  little 
of  that,  and  nothing  perfect.  They  are  taught  too 
much  at  once;  too  much  entirely.  And  in  respect 
to  young  girls,  they  are  too  early,  as  the  saying  is, 
brought  out.  For  instance,  the  other  day  I  called  on. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  133 

an  old  lady  friend,  whom  I  had  not  seen  in  some  years, 
and  there  met  her  daughter,  a  young  girl  of,  I  should 
judge,  seventeen.  In  the  course  of  conversation,  I  re- 
marked to  the  daughter,  ( I  suppose  you  have  almost 
finished  your  studies?'  She  arose,  apparently  greatly 
insulted,  and  left  the  room.  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to 
account  for  her  strange  behavior  until  her  mother 
apologized  for  her,  and  told  me  that  Cecilia  was  en- 
gaged. I  was  surprised.  A  young,  child-looking 
girl,  who  could  not  possibly  know  her  own  mind  and 
should  have  been  at  school,  engaged  to  be  married  ! 
Yes,  it  was  true.  Did  she  know  what  she  was  going 
to  do  ?  Had  she  any  idea  of  the  solemnity  of  mar- 
riage ?  Not  the  least.  To  her  it  was  a  great  thing  — 
a  matter  for  the  envy  of  others.  She  had  been  brought 
up  in  a  fashionable  school,  where  the  only  things 
taught  were  dress,  fashion,  and  hurry-up-and-get-a- 
husbaud-or-you-will-be-an-old-maid.  That  was  the 
great  thing  —  don't  be  an  old  maid  !  How  many 
unhappy  married  men  and  women  there  are  in  this 
city  to-day,  the  result  of  such  thoughtlessness,  I  need 
not  tell  you.  People  marry  nowadays  just  as  they 
would  do  anything  of  oh-nothing-at-all  importance. 
Afterwards,  when  the  romance  of  the  affair  is  dispelled, 
they  find  that  what  they  imagined  love  was  merely 
fancy.  I  might  say  much  more  on  this  topic,  but  it  is 
going  away  entirely  from  the  subject  we  first  broached. 
To  return,  then,  to  religion.  '  Let  me  premise  by  in- 
forming you,  that  you  may  not  deem  me  a  hypocrite, 
that  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  religious  or  to  always 
practise  what  I  preach ;  it  is  so  much  easier  preaching 

than  practising.     When  you  ask  me  for  my  opinions 
12 


134  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

on  religion,  I  tell  you,  not  perhaps  what  I  do,  but 
what  I  think  proper  and  right.  First,  then,  religion 
is  simply  a  matter  of  belief —  of  faith  ;  for  without 
faith,  there  can  be  no  religion,  but  only  hypocrisy. 
There  are  any  number  of  religious  sects,  each  one 
worshipping  in  its  own  peculiar  way.  They  all,  how- 
ever, worship  a  being  they  term  God ;  so  you  see,  it 
all  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  Each  day  in  the  week 
is  a  Sunday  to  some  one  of  these  sects  —  a  day  set 
apart  for  the  worship  of  a  being  termed  God.  Now, 
it  cannot  be  doubted  that  religion  is  a  preventative  of 
crime.  Were  it  certain  that  when  a  man  dies,  that  is 
the  end  of  him,  numberless  men  who  now,  through 
fear  of  punishment  hereafter,  even  if  they  escape  here, 
remain  upright  in  action,  if  not  in  thought,  would  be 
great  criminals.  Now,  in  every  religion,  whatever  the 
belief  may  be,  I  can  find  much  that  is  good  and  much 
that  is  bad;  and  while  religion  has  worked  a  vast 
amount  of  good,  it  has  also  worked  a  vast  amount  of 
bad  —  or,  rather,  I  should  say  it  is  fanaticism  that  has 
worked  the  bad  ;  but  fanaticism  has  been  the  offspring 
of  religion,  even  if  religion  —  that  is,  some  beliefs  — 
do  not  teach  it.  No  man  has  a  right  to  say  to  another, 
*  You  are  wrong  and  I  am  right ;  mine  is  the  only  true 
religion?'  Why,  my  dear  Miss  Derville,  I  know  of  a 
case  where,  incredulous  as  it  may  appear  to  you,  one 
man  said  to  another,  '  My  dear  sir,  I  like  you  very 
much — as  much  as  any  one  I  know  —  and  I  am  sorry 
for  you,  for  you  know  you  do  not  believe  right  and  so 
are  doomed — '  well,  to  say  it  politely,  to  go  below 
stairs,  where  the  thermometer  ranges  well  up  in  the 
hundreds." 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  135 

Miss  Derville  smiled.  Mr.  Wilton  continued  : 
"  Now,  this  man  undoubtedly  believed  what  he  said 
and  thought  himself  religious.  But  was  he  ?  What 
right  had  he  to  judge?  Why  could  not  the  other  have 
said  the  same  to  him  with  equal  propriety?  What 
right  has  either  of  them  to  say  the  other  is  wrong  ? 
None,  none,  whatever.  It  is  against  the  spirit  of  true 
religion.  No  man  has  the  right  to  say  to  another  that 
his  religion  is  false.  He  cannot  positively  prove  it;  it 
is  simply  a  matter  of  belief.  Am  I  right  ?  " 
"  I  think  you  are." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

HOW   CRIMINALS   ARE   MADE. 

THIS  question  of  religion,  Miss  Derville,"  continued 
Mr.  Wilton,  "has  puzzled  greater  minds  than 
mine.  The  more  we  discuss  it,  the  more  bewildered 
we  become.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  never  care  to 
argue  it.  One  who  allows  his  thoughts  to  dwell  on  it 
too  much  becomes  morbid,  perhaps  fanatic,  perhaps 
insane.  There  is  only  one  solution  of  it.  We  must 
accept  much  that  appears  improbable  without  question 
or  inquiry.  We  can  all  believe  what  we  choose ;  it 
concerns  ourselves,  and  is  our  own  business.  It  is  this 
spirit  of  proclaiming  ourselves  right,  and  all  who  be- 
lieve otherwise  wrong,  that  has  caused  all  the  religious 
persecutions  history  records,  and  has  promoted  atheism. 
And  I  am  pained  to  say  that  my  experience  has  shown 


136  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

me  that  even  now,  in  what  we  call  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury of  civilization,  bigotry  exists  to  an  alarming  ex- 
tent, and  sectarian  prejudice  is  still  very  great.  We 
look  on  past  ages  as  barbarous  and  uncivilized.  Future 
ages  will  look  back  on  us  in  the  same  light,  and  just  as 
justly,  for  civilization  never  ceases,  and  the  day  is  sure 
to  come  when  the  entire  world  will  be  of  one  and  the 
same  faith  and  belief  as  regards  religion,  and  future 
generations  will  wonder  how  we  of  to-day  could  ever 
have  been  so  diverse  in  our  religious  opinions,  and  yet 
have  called  ourselves  civilized,  when  bigotry  existed 
among  us." 

"Yes;  that  is  doubtless  true,  Mr.  Wilton.  But, 
pardon  me  if  I  interrupt  you.  Suppose  we  go  back  to 
the  starting-point,  as  we  will  be  missed  soon,  if  we  are 
not  already,  and  you  have  not  as  yet  told  me  what  your 
belief  is." 

"  I  will  tell  you  first  what  I  do  not  believe.  I  do 
not  believe  in  the  man  who  keeps  up  to  the  strict  tenets 
of  any  religion,  while,  at  the  same  time,  he  does  not 
believe  in  one-half  of  them.  The  world  may  call  him 
religious,  because  he  attends  church  regularly ;  but  I 
call  him  a  hypocrite.  Hypocrites  are  detestable." 

"Especially  religious  hypocrites." 

"  Well,  then,  Miss  Derville,  I  consider  a  man  re- 
ligious who  keeps  up  to  those  principles  which  appear 
right  to  him,  and  who  does  what  he  thinks  right  — 
not  does  so  because  he  is  told  to,  but  because  he  believes 
it  right." 

"  I  must  differ  with  you  there,  Mr.  Wilton,  because 
then  the  murderer  might  call  himself  religious,  for  he 
could  say  he  thought  he  was  right." 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  137 

"Ah!  excuse  me  for  telling  you  that  you  fall  into 
a  too  common  error.  Let  me  ask  you  one  question. 
Do  you  think  it  possible  for  a  man  to  commit  a  crime, 
and  say  that  he  thought  he  was  doing  right  ?  " 

«  Well  — " 

"  Yes  —  excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  Miss  Der- 
ville  —  he  might  say  so,  but  would  he  believe  it?  could 
he  convince  himself  that  he  honestly  thought  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  know,  Mr.  Wilton,  we  can  generally 
make  ourselves  believe  whatever  we  wish  to." 

"  That  is  partly  true.  But  we  often  try  to  convince 
ourselves  we  are  right,  when  we  know  and  feel  we  are 
wrong.  We  try  to  quiet  the  inner  voice.  Now,  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  a  startling  question.  For  myself,  I 
answer  no.  Do  you  believe  in  a  hell  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not.  Hell  is  our  guilty  conscience.  It 
may  sleep  sometimes,  but  it  must  awake  at  last." 

"  But  some  people  have  no  conscience." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  do  not.  They  try  to"  make 
themselves  believe  they  have  it  not,  because  it  sleeps, 
and  does  not  disturb  them.  But  it  must  awake  some 
time,  and  then  they  suffer  the  torments  of  hell." 

Mr.  Wilton  smiled. 

"  That  may  and  may  not  be,"  he  said ;  "  however, 
some  people  suffer  so  much  on  earth  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  them  to  suffer  worse  tortures  hereafter." 

"  Why,  the  world  is  good." 

"True  —  too  good  for  the  people  who  live  in  it. 
But  now  you  have  heard  my  views  on  religion,  what 
think  you  of  them?" 

"  I  agree  and  I  disagree.     But  talking  of  murderers, 
what  think  you  of  them  ?  " 
12* 


138  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

"  When  there  is  no  crime,  there  will  be  no  world. 
Crime  seems  to  increase  as  civilization  advances. 
Why,  there  are  from  twenty  to  thirty  thousand  pro- 
fessional law-breakers  in  this  city  to-day." 

"  As  many  as  that?" 

"  Yes,  fully.  And  the  statistics  show  that  this  class 
is  constantly  increasing,  and  becoming  greater  in 
number,  year  after  year." 

"  And  what  is  the  cause  of  this  continual  increase  ?  " 

"Poverty  is  one  cause;  and  the  richer  the  world 
becomes  the  greater  poverty  there  is  in  it.  But  there 
are  many  causes  which  a  lady  cannot  be  told.  How 
poverty  is  one  cause  can  easily  be  explained.  If  we 
examine  our  criminal  statistics,  and  the  lives  of  prob- 
ably one-half  of  our  criminals,  we  will  find  this  to  be 

the  case :  Mr.  B, is  a  man  in  the  middle  class  of 

life,  in  moderate  circumstances.  He  becomes  reduced, 
and  very  poor.  In  an  unguarded  moment  he  commits 
forgery,  or  a  theft  —  perhaps  to  keep  his  family  from 
starving.  You  see  our  law  is  so  curious  that  a  man 
who  steals  a  loaf  of  bread  is  often  more  severely 
punished  than  one  who  takes  life." 

"  I  am  very  greatly  interested.     Please  continue." 

"  Well,  say  even  in  a  moment  of  passion  he  com- 
mits murder.  He  is  arrested,  tried,  sent  to  prison  for 
a  number  of  years ;  or,  in  case  of  murder  — " 

"  Suffers  death." 

"Exactly.  The  law  punishes  him;  but  not  only 
him.  His  wife,  his  three  young  sons,  aged  between 
five  and  eight,  and  a  daughter,  say  of  four  years,  suffer 
for  his  crime  also." 

"  It  is  hard ;  but  it  must  be  done." 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  139 

"  Wait ;  allow  me  one  moment,  please.  Left  with- 
out any  one  to  support  her  or  her  family,  too  proud  — 
for  the  poor  as  well  as  the  rich  are  proud,  Miss  Der- 
ville — too  proud  to  go  to  the  almshouse,  not  willing  to 
part  with  her  children,  and  naturally  feeling  bitter 
against  them  who,  as  she  says,  '  knowing  not  poverty/ 
have  deprived  her  of  her  only  support  —  shunned, 
pointed  at  as  the  wife  of  a  criminal,  she  can  obtain  no 
work,  for  no  one  will  trust  her  —  can  you  not  imagine 
the  sequel,  Miss  Derville,  or  shall  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  I  had  rather  you  would  tell  me." 

"  She  rebels  against  the  law.  The  serpent  is  ever 
near,  watching ;  the  three  young  boys,  and  the  little 
girl,  from  that  time  are  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere 
of  sin,  with  society's  outcasts  for  companions ;  they 
come  of  age ;  what  should  be  the  happiest  period  of 
their  lives  gone,  and  themselves,  though  young  in  years, 
old  in  crime.  In  this  manner  the  criminal  classes  re- 
ceive three  new  males,  and,  who  are  infinitely  more 
capable  of  doing  mischief,  two  female  members." 

"  What  you  tell  me  is  horrible,"  said  May,  im- 
pressed by  his  manner  quite  as  much  as  by  his  words. 

"  Truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  Miss  Derville. 
What  I  have  told  you  is  true ;  I  know  it." 

"  But,  Mr.  Wilton,  surely  you  would  not  have  us 
allow  criminals  to  escape  all  punishment,  simply  be- 
cause they  may  happen  to  have  wives  and  children  ?  " 

"  Assuredly  not ;  but  I  would  have  the  law  provide 
for  fhe  wives  and  children." 

"  Why,  there  are  plenty  of  places  — " 

"  But  they  are  too  proud  to  go  to  a  public  charity- 
house.  The  law  should  look  after  and  care  for  them  — 


140  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

see  that  the  children  are  properly  educated.  But  I 
cannot  explain  my  whole  meaning  to  you,  or  my  plans, 
just  now.  Some  other  time,  if  you  desire  it,  I  may. 
I  will  only  say  that  the  money  this  would  require 
would  be  insignificant  in  comparison  to  the  benefits 
society  would  derive  from  it." 

"  Well,  I  will  not  trouble  you  any  further  at  pres- 
ent. Only  one  question  more :  Do  you  think  a  person 
could  commit  murder  in  cold  blood  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do.  But,  come,  it  is  growing  chilly. 
Allow  me  to  escort  you  inside." 

Arm  in  arm  they  entered  the  brilliantly  lit  up  par- 
lors, while  all  eyes  were  turned  significantly  on  them. 

Before  retiring  that  night,  May  detailed  to  Mary 
Farly  her  whole  conversation  with  Mr.  Wilton. 

"I  cannot  but  agree  with  him  in  some  respects," 
said  Mrs.  Farly.  "I  would  like  to  see  this  man,  who 
seems  to  be  the  lion  of  the  day.  But  I  cannot  agree 
with  him  that  a  human  being,  possessed  of  a  rational 
mind,  and  in  full  control  of  the  senses  with  which  God 
has  endowed  him,  could  commit  murder  in  cold  blood. 
The  idea  is,  to  me,  at  total  variance,  and  incompatible 
with  any  opinion  of  human  nature  not  in  itself  de- 
praved and  bad.  The  man  may  appear  perfectly  sane 
—  may  commit  murder  simply  for  money  —  yet  his 
mind  is  to  some  degree  diseased.  But  you  should  not 
think  of  such  subjects,  May;  you  should  enjoy  your 
life." 

"Yes,"  thought  May,  "that  is  always  it.  We 
should  be  happy,  and  not  give  a  thought  to  the  miser- 
able, or  for  their  welfare.  I  know  Mary  does  not  mean 
that;  but  such  is  the  opinion  and  advice  of  the  world." 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  141 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

ALICE. 

IF  the  outside  of  this  tenement-house  is  miserable 
in  the  extreme,  and  seems  to  be  hesitating  whether 
to  tumble  down  or  remain  standing,  the  inside  is  not 
much  better.  It  is  literally  swarming  with  human 
beings,  from  the  prattling  child  to  the  decrepit  old 
woman. 

In  one  room  sits  a  woman  plainly  attired.  There 
is  a  sad  look  in  the  deep  blue  eyes,  and  the  marks  of 
suffering  are  plainly  discernible  on  the  face.  It  is 
apparent  that  her  life  has  not  been  a  smooth  one,  and 
that,  as  she  sits  idly  here,  she  must  once  have  been 
very  beautiful.  Her  beauty  has  not  entirely  faded  yet. 
Evidently  she  is  expecting  a  visitor  and  has  nerved 
herself  for  a  bitter  struggle. 

"  I  love  him  !  I  love  him  so! "  she  murmurs.  " He 
cannot,  oh,  he  must  not  desert  me  !  No !  no  !  " 

Presently  the  room  door  opens,  and  a  man  enters 
into  the  wretched  apartment.  He  advances  towards 
her  with  open  arms,  as  if  expecting  her  to  fly  into 
them.  But  he  is  disappointed.  She  does  half  arise, 
as  if  to  give  way  to  her  inclination ;  then,  as  some  bit- 
ter memory  comes  to  her,  she  sinks  back  into  the  chair 
and  allows  her  hands  to  drop  idly  upon  her  lap. 

A  look  of  surprise  is  in  his  eyes  as  he  bends  over  to 
kiss  her ;  but  she  turns  her  face  away  and  motions  him 
off  with  her  hands.  His  look  changes  into  one  half 
of  fright  and  half  of  pain. 


142  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

"  Why,  Alice  ! "  he  says,  reproachfully. 

But  sh6  only  straightens  herself  up,  looks  him  full 
in  the  face,  and  says  simply  —  but,  oh  !  so  bitterly : 

"  So  you  have  come  ! " 

"  Alice ! " 

There  is  a  twinge  of  pain  in  his  voice  that  touches 
her.  For  a  moment  she  seems  ashamed  of  the  cold 
way  in  which  she  is  treating  him  ;  and  then,  recovering 
from  the  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  rush  to  him  and 
cry  on  his  breast,  she  steadies  her  nerves  again. 

"  Be  seated/'  she  says,  curtly,  motioning  him  to  a 
chair. 

"  Alice,  what 's  got  over  you  ?  Is  this  the  way  you 
treat  me  ?  And  you  said  you  loved  me  !  Is  this  the 
reception  I  am  accorded  from  you  ?  " 

A  bitter  struggle  takes  place  within  he'r  upheaving 
bosom ;  a  wave  of  passion  sweeps  over  her,  and  then — 
is  gone. 

"  I  despise  you  ! "  she  says ;  but  the  words  almost 
choked  her. 

The  look  of  pain  deepens  in  his  eyes.  His  voice 
trembles  as  he  speaks. 

"  You  !  Alice,  you  !  you  say  that  to  me  ?  Very  well. 
I  am  going.  Farewell !  " 

He  turns  around,  places  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
door,  then  faces  her  again,  and  repeats : 

"  Farewell,  Alice." 

He  half  opens  the  door.  She  seems  to  be  in  a  trance ; 
but,  suddenly,  she  rises,  rushes  to  his  side,  grasps  his 
arm,  and  says,  hoarsely : 

"  Stay,  John,  stay !  " 

He  makes  a  movement  as  if  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  143 

At  the  action  she  conquers  her  emotion,  steps  back  and 
says,  corumandingly  : 

"  Sit  down ;  I  have  much  to  say  to  you." 

He  obeys  her  in  a  bewildered  manner,  as  if  puzzled, 
and  at  a  loss  how  to  account  for  her  strange  conduct. 

She  closes  and  locks  the  door,  and  then  comes  and 
stands  in  front  of  him. 

"  Alice,"  he  says,  "  your  conduct  is  utterly  inexpli- 
cable to  me." 

"Then  listen  to  me,  John,"  she  replies,  "and  see  if 
it  is  not  justified.  Look  at  me.  Look  at  the  wreck  I 
am.  I  was  young,  and  pure,  and  beautiful,  they  said, 
when  I  first  met  you.  I  loved  you,  John,  and  you 
told  me  that  you  loved  me.  I,  poor  fool,  believed 
you ;  I  believed  in  all  your  promises  :  I  obeyed  you, 
and  did  what  you  wished.  I  would  have  thought  any 
sacrifice  easy  to  have  won  your  love.  God  pity  me ! 
I  left  home  and  parents,  friends,  for  your  sake ;  I  lost 
honor;  I  became  a  social  outcast  for  your  sake.  All 
these  sacrifices  willingly  I  made  because  I  loved  you; 
and,  in  my  blindness,  I  thought  you  loved  me  — " 

"Why,  Alice — "  he  interrupted. 

"  Wait,  and  hear  me  through,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
that  trembled  slightly  with  passionate  emotion.  "Only 
•a  few  short  years  ago  I  was  pure,  I  was  happy,  I  was 
beloved ;  now  I  am  lost,  I  am  miserable,  I  am  un- 
loved!" 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  tone  in  which  the  last 
words  were  said.  It  was  full  of  a  hopeless  despair. 

"  Alice  ! "  he  interrupts  again,  and  the  one  word 
speaks  volumes. 

"Oh,  John!"  she  continues,  unheeding  his  inter- 


144  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

ruption,  "  I  gave  up  everything  that  made  life  dear 
for  your  sake  —  because  you  promised  to  marry  me. 
Day  and  night  I  have  worked  aiid  slaved  for  you.  I 
have  tried  to  make  you  happy ;  I  have  done  every- 
thing you  asked  of  me  —  because  I  was  to  be  your 
wife." 

"  And  so  you  will  be,  Alice." 

"So  I  will  be!  How  often  you  have  said  those 
words  to  me !  How  can  I  believe  you  ?  Will  you 
come  and  marry  me  now  ?  " 

"  Alice,  you  doubt  me.  Oh,  Alice !  you  doubt  me  ; 
and  I  have  been  working  all  these  years  for  you.  No, 
no  —  you  do  not  love  me." 

Either  the  man  felt  what  he  said,  or  else  he  was  a 
consummate  actor. 

"  Oh,  John,  do  not  say  that !  do  not  say  that !  You 
know  I  love  you ! "  she  cried,  giving  away  to  her  feel- 
ings at  last.  "But  why  not  marry  me  now?  It  would 
make  me  so  much  happier." 

"Alice,  I  cannot  at  present."  At  the  words  she 
regained  her  self-possession. 

"  Yes  !  "  she  said,  sternly,  bitterly.  "  That  is  always 
your  answer — Not  at  present!  And  meanwhile  you 
are  plotting  to  rid  yourself  of  me  ;  meanwhile  you  are 
paying  your  attention  to  others,  and  I  am  deserted ;  I 
am  cast  off  like  an  orange  out  of  which  all  the  juice 
has  been  sucked." 

He  whistled  —  a  long,  prolonged  whistle,  that  told 
he  had  discovered  the  cause  of  her  strange  conduct. 

"  Oh,  ho  !  "  he  laughed.  "  Why,  Alice,  jealous ! 
Now,  now,  my  pretty  girl,  jealous !  Why,  Alice !  " 

"  Jealous !  "  she  cried,  passionately.     "  Have  I  not 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  145 

cause  to  be  jealous  ?  I  tell  you  that  I  love  you ;  I 
love  you  who  has  ruined  me,  and  you  shall  not  desert 
me  !  No,  no,  never  !  never  while  I  live !  " 

"  Now,  Alice,  if  you  are  through,  probably  you  will 
give  me  a  chance  to  explain,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  It 
is  useless  getting  into  a  passion  ;  it  does  no  good.  Be- 
sides, you  do  not  know  what  you  say  in  your  anger, 
and  may  repent  it.  Come,  sit  down  by  me,  and 
listen!" 

She  obeyed  him. 

"  Now,  Alice,  I  want  to  make  a  fortune,  so  that 
when  we  marry  we  can  enjoy  ourselves.  You  are  a 
good  girl  and  have  done  all  that  I  have  asked  of  you. 
I  have  always  tried  to  please  you  —  " 

"  And  yet  you  go  there  day  after  day  of  late,  and  I 
am  left  alone  !  " 

"  Now,  Alice,  don't  be  jealous  !  If  I  go  there,  it  is 
for  your  sake.  Never  mind.  Some  day  you  will 
thank  me  for  it.  I  go  to  see  her  father  on  business, 
and  cannot  avoid  seeing  her ;  and  yet  here  you  are, 
jealous  of  me.  Come  now,  Alice,  be  a  sensible  girl, 
and  make  it  all  up." 

If  he  was  lying,  his  lies  had  the  tone  of  truth. 

She  flung  her  arms  passionately  around  his  neck, 
and  kissed  him  over  and  over  again. 

"  Oh,  John,  forgive  a  poor,  miserable  creature  like 
me,  who  loves  you  so,"  she  sobbed.  "  It  was  cruel  in 
me  to  doubt  you  ;  but  I  loved  you,  John,  and  I  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  parting  with  you." 

"  There,  there,  my  little  girl !  don't  let  it  worry  you. 
Don't  cry,  Alice  ;  I  love  you  ;  I  shall  not  leave  you. 
Only  have  faith  in  me." 

13  K 


146  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

"  Oh,  yes,  John,  I  will !  "  she  replied,  and  a  smile 
of  happiness  was  in  her  eyes  that  lit  up  her  counte- 
nance with  a  holy  look.  Poor,  poor  thing!  Well 
might  she  have  said  with  the  poetess  : 

And  darest  them  speak  of  faithlessness  and  him 
In  the  same  idle  breath  ?    Thou  little  knowest 
The  strong  confiding  of  a  woman's  heart 
When  woman  loves  as  —  I  do. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A    CHANCE     MEETING. 

IT  was  a  habit  which  Mary  Farly  had  formed,  since 
she  had  found  a  home  with  the  Dervilles,  of  making 
once  a  week,  regularly,  a  charity  excursion ;  that  is, 
having  found  out  a  number  of  worthy  families  in 
straitened  circumstances,  she  took  them  in  charge, 
and  saw  that  they  were  provided  for,  and  many  were 
the  heartfelt  blessings  showered  on  her  head. 

l^Hers  was  true  charity,  simple  and  secret.  She  did 
not  believe  in  charity  that  was  ostentatious ;  for,  as  she 
said,  while  it  doubtless  did  a  great  deal  of  good,  it  was 
not  true  charity. 

"  The  man  or  woman,"  she  was  wont  to  say,  "  who 
finds  out  a  number  of  poor,  worthy  people  and  assists 
them  to  the  extent  of  his  or  her  ability,  is  far  more 
charitable,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  than  they  who 
erect  large  buildings,  so  that  it  may  become  known, 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  147 

and  refuse  assistance  to  the  poor  who  come  begging  to 
their  doors.  While  these  people  do  good,  their  object, 
in  almost  every  instance,  is  not  charity,  but  self." 

In  these  excursions  she  was  generally  accompanied 
by  May  ;  they  served  to  keep  her  thoughts  from  rest- 
ing on  herself;  but  on  this  day,  one  week  after  the 
event  related  in  the  last  chapter,  we  see  her  setting  out 
alone. 

We  do  not  mean  to  detail  her  many  visits,  or  the 
welcome  and  blessings  she  received.  These  poor, 
simple  people  regarded  her  in  their  enthusiasm  as  a 
guardian  angel,  and  could  not  imagine  that  she  was  a 
human  being  like  themselves,  and  that  she  was  poorer 
and  more  miserable  in  many  respects  than  even  they 
were. 

It  was  late  in  the  day,  when,  on  her  mission  of  love, 
she  entered  the  miserable  tenement  mentioned  in  the 
preceding  chapter.  There  lived  in  this  wretched  place 
one  family  who  were  the  recipients  of  her  charity. 

It  was  after  she  had  attended  to  their  welfare,  and 
had  descended  the  stairs  and  stood  at  their  foot  on  the 
landing,  that  a  door  in  front  of  her  opened,  and  a  man 
emerged  into  the  entrance-way  and  passed  hurriedly 
out.  His  exit  was  followed  by  the  sound  of  a  fall  and 
sobbing. 

Probably  these  sounds  were  of  such  frequent  occur- 
rence that  none  of  the  miserable  inmates  of  this 
wretched  habitation  saw  anything  unusual  in  them, 
or  paid  any  attention  to  them.  Misery  and  poverty 
go  hand-in-hand  together ;  and  people  have  enough 
troubles  of  their  own  without  attending  to  others'.  At 
least  this  seemed  to  be  the  motto  here.  But  to  Mary 


148  THE  WOELD  TO  BLAME. 

Parly  these  sobs  seemed  to  come  from  a  breaking  heart, 
and  she  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  inquire  into 
their  cause,  and  comfort  the  miserable  being  from 
whom  they  came,  if  that  were  possible. 

It  was  well  for  her  that  she  did  so,  and  it  was  by  one 
of  those  strange  fatuities  that  can  only  be  accounted  for 
as  Providential  that  she  entered  the  room  from  whence 
the  sobs  seemed  to  come. 

It  was  a  miserable  place;  but  the  sight  that  attracted 
Mary  Farly's  attention  was  not  the  wretchedness  and 
poverty  that  was  everywhere  visible,  but  a  woman,  who 
had  slipped  from  off  the  miserable  apology  for  a  chair, 
and  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands  knelt  and  sobbed 
as  though  her  heart  was  breaking.  Her  form  shook 
like  a  reed  in  the  wind,  and  her  moans  seemed  as 
though  they  could  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone  with 
pity. 

"Ah,  me!"  murmured  the  sympathetic  intruder. 
"  Misery,  misery  everywhere  !  None  so  poor,  but  others 
are  poorer." 

Then  she  advanced  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  miser- 
able creature's  shoulder  gently. 

"  My  poor  woman,"  she  said,  "  don't  cry  so.  I  am 
your  friend.  Tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  comfort  you." 

But  the  woman's  sobs  only  came  the  faster  and  more 
hysterically. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  she  moaned.  "Oh!  leave  me 
alone.  I  wish  I  was  dead  !  oh !  I  wish  I  was  dead  ! " 

"  No,  no,  my  poor  woman ;  don't  say  so.  Don't 
talk  so  wildly.  It  is  wrong,  it  is  wicked  to  wish  your- 
self dead.  Come,  calm  yourself.  Look  up,  and  let 
me  comfort  you." 


THE   WORLD   TO   BLAME.  149 

"  No !  no  !  I  am  miserable  !  Oh  !  I  am  so  miser- 
able !  There  is  no  comfort  for  me  here ;  there  is  no 
comfort  for  me  !  " 

"  There  is  comfort  for  all  who  do  not  refuse  it. 
Come,  let  me  be  your  friend ;  won't  you  ?  " 

Perhaps  it  was  the  sincere  tone  in  which  the  words 
were  said,  or  perhaps  it  was  an  instinctive  feeling  that 
the  speaker  was  really  a  friend,  that  caused  the  woman 
to  suddenly  hush  her  sobbing,  and  look  up  at  Mary 
Farly. 

As  their  eyes  met,  they  both  started  with  a  move- 
ment of  violent  astonishment.  One  look  —  but  one  — 
and  they  were  locked  in  each  other's  embrace. 

"Alice!" 

"  Mary  ! " 

That  was  all  that  passed  between  them  for  some 
minutes. 

They  had  met  —  met  for  the  first  time  since  the 
happy  hours,  long,  long  ago,  when  they  had  known 
each  other  as  school-girls.  These  two  women  —  who 
had  known  each  other  in  better,  happier  days,  when 
life  had  been  a  pleasant  dream ;  when  they,  as  class- 
mates and  loving  friends,  had  romped  together  in  the 
old  school-yard,  and  who  had  lost  sight  of  each  other 
during  many  long  years  which  had  intervened  since 
the  happy  days  of  their  girlhood  —  met  again,  but,  oh  ! 
iu  what  different  circumstances  !  — met  again,  but  under 
what  a  different  aspect ! 

Those  had  been  days  of  happiness  and  affluence ;  but 
now,  oh  !  now,  what  a  change  ! 

Who  can  tell  what  the  impenetrable  future  holds  iu 
store  for  us  ? 
13* 


150  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

And  so  they  had  met  —  these  two,  who  had  known 
each  other  as  girls ;  who  had  speculated  on  the  future ; 
who  had  laughed,  and  played,  and  romped  together ; 
who  had  compared  their  thoughts,  and  unfolded  their 
plans,  and  entrusted  their  little  secrets  to  each  other  — 
these  two,  whose  lives  had  opened  so  auspiciously,  and 
under  such  bright  aspects ;  for  whom  the  future  had 
seemed  to  hold  only  happiness ;  whose  life-paths  had 
diverged,  but  who  had  both  trodden  the  thorny  path, 
met  again  as  —  women. 

There  was  much  to  be  told,  much  to  be  said  on  both 
sides.  But  it  was  Alice  who,  after  they  had  recovered 
from  their  surprise,  and  had  become  familiar  again, 
first  told  the  history  of  her  life  since  they  had  last  seen 
each  other. 

Can  it  not  be  guessed  ?  It  was  nothing  new,  nothing 
strange;  the  same  old,  every-day  story,  that,  alas,  is  so 
familiar  to  almost  every  one.  Who  has  not  heard  that 

old  story, 

So  old,  so  old, 
So  often  told, 

— the  story  of  a  pure,  trusting  heart,  which  loved  not 
wisely,  but  too  well  —  the  story  of 

The  cat  and  dove  — 
Of  man's  deceit,  and  woman's  love  ? 

There  is  no  need  of  repeating  it  here. 

"  Last  night,"  she  concluded,  while  a  burning  blush 
suffused  her  cheeks,  "  he  was  here.  Oh,  Mary,  I  had 
never  seen  him  so  before.  He  was  always  temperate, 
calm,  collected  —  never  in  a  passion;  but  last  night 
something  must  have  disturbed  him  greatly,  for  he  did 


THE  WOULD  TO  BLAME.  151 

what  he  never  had  done  before  —  talked  in  his  sleep. 
I  heard  every  word  he  said,  and,  oh,  how  they  crushed 
me !  He  was  planning  to  rid  himself  of  me.  I  was 
a  burden  to  him  —  I,  who  had  done  so  much,  and 
would  do  even  more,  if  it  were  possible,  for  his  sake. 
Oh  !  Mary,  you  cannot  imagine  what  I  felt !  He  said 
he  must  rid  himself  of  me ;  that  she  loved  him,  and 
he  would  marry  her,  and  so  become  rich ;  that  his 
plans  must  succeed.  To-day,  we  had  a  quarrel,  and 
he  has  left  me  in  anger.  Oh  !  Mary,  Mary,  what  shall 
I  do?  What  shall  I  do?" 

She  sobbed  hysterically  again. 

"  Come,  now,  Alice,"  said  Mary  Farly,  soothingly, 
"  don't  give  way  so.  Cheer  up,  for  my  sake.  Tell  me 
who  this  girl  is,  and  I  will  see  her ;  and  if  she  is  at  all 
honorable,  she  will  let  him  go." 

"  No,  oh,  no  j  he  would  blame  me  for  it ;  he  would 
hate  me !  "  moaned  the  unfortunate  woman. 

"  He  need  never  know,  Alice,  who  told  her.  Be  a 
brave  woman,  and  tell  me  who  she  is." 

"  I  will  tell  you  her  name.  She  is  rich,  she  is  happy, 
she  is  far  above  me.  But  you  must  promise  me  that, 
whatever  may  come,  you  will  shield  him  from  harm." 

"  What !  Alice,  you  love  him  still  ?  And  after 
what  he  has  done  to  you  ?  You  love  him  still,  and  he 
so  unworthy  ?  " 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  answered  in  a  low  voice : 

"  I  love  him  still.  Don't  chide  me,  don't  blame  me, 
don't  ask  me  why ;  I  only  know  I  love  him ;  I  always 
will  love  him  while  I  live." 

•  Yes,  she  loved  him.  This  man  had  betrayed,  had 
ruined  her;  had  blasted  her  life,  and  made  her  an  out- 


152  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

cast;  this  man  had  made  of  her  the  miserable  being 
she  was,  and  yet  she  loved  him.  It  mattered  not  what 
he  had  done,  she  loved  him.  Is  it  not  strange  that  a 
woman's  best  affections,  a  woman's  love  should  be 
lavished  on  so  unworthy  an  object;  that  she  should 
cling  to  him  who  had  ruined  her,  and  robbed  her  of 
all  that  made  life  worth  the  having  ?  But  who  can 
account  for  that  most  strange  and  inexplicable  of  all 
passions  —  Love  ? 

"  She  speaks  the  truth,"  Mary  Farly  said  pityingly 
to  herself.  "  She  loves  him  still." 

"But,  Alice,"  she  said  aloud,  "you  must  tell  me  — 
you  owe  it  to  yourself  to  tell  me,  if  you  know  —  the 
name  of  this  girl.     You  owe  it  to  her." 

"  I  know  it ;  I  know  it.  But  I  cannot,  oh,  I  can- 
not, have  harm  come  to  him  through  me ! " 

"  Alice,  you  are  foolish.  I  insist  upon  knowing  this 
girl's  name !  " 

"  Promise  me,  then,"  begged  the  miserable  woman, 
"  that  no  harm  shall  come  to  him.  Promise  me  that 
you  will  shield  him  from  all  danger,  all  harm." 

"  I  promise  you,  Alice,  that  I  will  do  all  in  my  power 
to  help  him,  though  he  is  so  unworthy.  I  will  do  it 
for  your  sake." 

The  woman  recovered  her  composure. 

"  I  believe  you,  Mary,"  she  said.  "  I  will  trust  you, 
and  tell  you  her  name." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  May  Derville  ! " 

Can  we  portray  the  astonishment  of  Mary  Farly  ? 

"May  —  May  Derville!"  she  exclaimed.  "Are 
you  sure?" 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  153 

"lam." 

This  necessitated  a  short  explanation  from  Mary 
Farly.  It  was  now  Alice's  turn  to  be  surprised. 

"  You  live  there  ?  "  she  exclaimed ;  "  You  live  with 
them  ?  Oh !  then  you  have  seen  him.  Promise  me 
you  will  not  harm  him." 

"  I  have  already  given  you  my  promise,  Alice.  But 
you  forget  that  I  do  not  see  one-half  of  the  gentlemen 
who  visit  her,  and  you  have  not  told  me  his  name." 

"  He  passes  under  the  name  of  Charles  Wilton,  T 
believe." 

"Charles  Wilton!" 

What !  the  pet  of  society ;  the  elegant,  accomplished, 
admired  Charles  Wilton?  Was  she  dreaming,  or  did 
she  hear  aright  ?  Was  it  this  man  —  could  it  be  this 
man  who  had  ruined  her  girlhood's  friend  ?  There 
was  no  room  for  doubt ;  she  was  not  dreaming ;  she 
had  heard  aright. 

Strange  !  the  many  and  various  palpable  contradic- 
tions of  human  nature!  But,  then,  had  not  Mr. 
Charles  Wilton  himself  said  that  he  suited  himself  to 
others,  and  to  circumstances?  and  that  it  was  easier 
preaching,  than  practising  ? 

This  was  a  day  of  surprises ;  but  the  greatest  one 
was  yet  in  store  for  her. 

She  hid  her  feelings  as  best  she  could  from  her  com- 
panion, and  said,  calmly : 

"  You  say  he  passes  under  the  name  of  Charles 
Wilton?" 

"Yes." 

" I  have  heard  of  him.     What  is  his  true  name? " 

"  I  knew  him  first  as  John  Brady ;  but  I  know  he 


154  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

has  passed  under  many  names  at  different  times,  and 
if  that  be  his  right  name  or  not,  I  cannot  tell." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  some  of  the  names  he  has  been 
known  by,  Alice  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Before  I  knew  him  I  have  ascertained  that 
he  used  the  names  of  William  Johnson,  Charles  Wil- 
liams, and  Philip  Marton." 

Was  it  a  wonder  that  Mary  Farly  started  so  violently 
in  astonishment? 

"  Charles  Williams  —  Philip  Mar  —  Mar — ! "  she 
gasped. 

"Philip  Marton,"  repeated  Alice,  looking  on  in 
silent  amazement. 

Mary  Farly  trembled  like  an  aspen.  The  room 
reeled  before  her  eyes,  and  she  came  near  fainting. 
The  shock  was  almost  too  great. 

She  had  found  him  !  found  him  after  years  of  patient 
wearing,  watching,  and  searching  —  found  him,  and 
by  a  mere  accident ! 

What  great  things  —  what  great  discoveries  have 
been  the  result  of  just  such  simple  accidents? 

She  had  searched,  and  searched,  and  hunted  for  this 
man  for  years  without  success,  but  to  find  him  at  last 
by  a  mere  chance-meeting. 

"God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way  his  wonders  to 
perform,"  she  thought,  when  she  had  recovered  her 
composure  somewhat. 

"  You  know  something,"  Alice  exclaimed,  in  alarm. 
"Tell  me— what  is  it?" 

Should  she  tell  her  ?  No !  she  would  spare  her  that. 
She  had  promised  not  to  harm  him,  and  she  would  be 
true  to  her  word  if  he  would  do  what  she  would  ask 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  155 

of  him  —  and  he  must.  He  should  not  escape  her 
now  —  now,  when  God  had  given  her  her  reward ; 
when,  as  by  a  miracle,  he  had  been  delivered  up  to  her. 

"  It 's  nothing,  Alice,"  she  replied ;  "  I  am  subject 
to  these  spells." 

"I  have  found  you,"  she  thought.  "At  last!  at 
last!" 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

CAUGHT. 

THE  elegant  Mr.  Charles  Wilton,  attired  becom- 
ingly in  the  height  of  fashion,  and  twirling  a  short, 
plain-looking  cane  between  his  fingers,  ascended  the 
dignified-looking  stoop,  and  pulled  the  silver-plated 
bell-knob. 

The  girl  who  opened  the  door  stood  as  if  entranced 
for  a  moment  at  sight  of  him ;  the  look  on  his  face  was 
full  of  such  a  quiet  resolve  and  self-complacency. 

"Is  Miss  Derville  in?"  he  inquired,  removing  his 
hat  with  gentlemanly  politeness. 

"  If  you  will  walk  in  the  parlor,  please,  sir,  I  will 
see,"  she  answered. 

The  elegant  Mr.  Wilton  walked  into  the  sumptuous 
parlors,  while  the  girl  ascended  the  stairs  and  knocked 
at  the  room-door  on  the  second  floor. 

Three  women  were  in  the  room,  all  pale,  and  seem- 
ingly in  suspense  —  May,  Alice,  and  Mary  Farly. 

"  Mr.  Wilton,"  announced  the  girl,  and  withdrew. 


156  THE  WOELD  TO  BLAME. 

Poor  Alice  came  near  fainting. 

"  Courage ! "  said  Mary  Farly  to  her.  "  Be  brave 
and  ready  when  I  call.  Do  not  let  your  fortitude 
desert  you." 

The  elegant  Mr.  Wilton  meanwhile,  sitting  in  ex- 
pectation in  the  parlor,  heard  the  hall-door  open  and 
close,  and  a  few  moments  later,  a  woman  whom  he  did 
not  know  —  Mary  Farly  —  appeared  before  him. 

He  arose  politely,  rather  disappointed. 

Be  careful,  now,  Mr.  Wilton !  You  will  need  all 
your  assurance  to  support  you ;  you  have  to  battle  with 
a  woman ! 

"  Mr.  Wilton,  I  believe,"  she  said,  calmly,  "  I  have 
often  heard  Miss  Derville  speak  of  you." 

Mr.  Wilton  bowed. 

"  I  am  highly  flattered  by  Miss  Derville's  notice," 
he  said ;  "  but,  madam,  is  she  out  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  well,  sir,  and  sent  ine  in  her  stead.  Be 
seated,  please." 

He  seated  himself. 

"  I  have  often  wished  to  meet  you,  sir,"  she  con- 
tinued, watching  him  narrowly.  "  My  name  is  Mary 
Farly." 

As  a  rule,  this  man  had  complete  control  over  him- 
self: but  that  name,  so  fraught  with  bitter  recollec- 
tions, was  one  that  he  had  not  forgotten ;  and  it  came 
so  by  surprise  and  so  unexpectedly  upon  him,  that  he 
could  not  suppress  his  astonishment. 

His  first  feeling  was  fear.  He  was  tempted  to  fly. 
But,  apparently,  she  was  not  paying  him  any  atten- 
tion ;  and  so  he  restrained  himself.  Did  this  woman 
know  him  ?  Impossible !  It  was  an  accident  merely 
—  a  chance-meeting. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  157 

He  mumbled  over  some  undistinguishable  words, 
and  then  sat  perfectly  still,  though  his  heart  was  beat- 
ing violently. 

"  I  have  often  heard  you  were  a  learned  man,  Mr. 
Wilton,"  she  said,  calmly,  "  and  I  have  come  to  ask 
your  advice.  I  have  a  short  story  to  tell  you." 

She  recounted  to  him  James  Farly's  confession. 
His  face  became  livid  in  hue  —  all  this  was  so  unex- 
pected and  startling !  He  looked  at  her.  She  was  not 
noticing  him ;  no,  she  did  not  know  him.  He  must 
be  calm. 

"  You  see,"  she  concluded,  "  I  have  promised  not  to 
harm  him,  unless  he  forces  me  to  extreme  measures. 
Now,  what  shall  I  do?" 

Somewhat  reassured,  he  answered  as  calmly  as  pos- 
sible under  the  circumstances : 

"  Having  found  this  man,  madam,  you  ought  to  see 
him,  and  compel  him  to  do  what  you  desire." 

She  arose  and  drew  a  small  table  —  on  which  was 
pen,  ink,  and  paper  —  in  front  of  him  ! 

He  sat  still  and  motionless  —  half  paralyzed ;  he 
could  not  have  stirred  one  step  at  that  moment. 

"Then,"  she  said,  firmly,  "Mr.  Charles  Wilton, 
alias  Charles  Williams,  alias  Philip  Marton,  write  a 
confession  of  the  part  you  enacted  in  the  murder  of 
Leslie  Wyndham ! " 

He  remained  motionless ;  no  chains  could  have  bound 
him  more  securely  to  his  seat. 

" Madam  !  "  burst  from  his  pale  lips,  "I  —  I  —  do 
not  —  understand  you  !  " 

"  Come,  sir,"  she  said,  firmly  as  before,  "  I.  have  no 
time  to  waste.     Be  wise  and  write ! 
14 


158  THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

" Madam ! "  he  stammered  again,  "I  —  I  —  you 
mistake  —  " 

"  I  do  not  mistake,  sir ;  I  know  you  !   Alice ! " 

At  the  call  the  woman  entered.  She  was  deathly 
pale,  and  trembling. 

At  sight  of  her  his  color  seemed  to  turn  to  a  ghastly 
green.  For  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  lost 
all  his  self-possession.  He  was  lost !  Caught,  at  last, 
by  a  woman ! 

What  followed  was  the  work  of  an  instant  —  was 
like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"  You  ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  the  same  tone  that  Caesar 
may  be  supposed  to  have  said  "Et  tu  Brute"  in,  as  the 
woman  he  had  ruined  advanced,  with  outstretched 
arms,  towards  him. 

His  passion  was  terrible  to  behold.  His  cane  seemed 
to  part,  something  bright  flashed  in  the  light,  and,  like 
a  wounded  tiger,  he  sprang  towards  her. 

The  next  instant  he  stood  as  in  a  trance,  while  the 
blood  spurted  from  her  bosom ;  she  staggered  and  fell 
at  his  feet,  a  heavenly  look  on  the  wasted  face,  that 
made  it  appear  divine  in  its  expression. 

"John!  oh,  John!"  she  gasped.  "You  have  killed 
me !  you  have  killed  me !  and  I  love  you  still !  Mary, 
Mary,  God  help  him  !  I  was  wrong !  oh,  I  was  wrong ! 
Oh,  John,  I  forgive  you,  I  forgive  you !  " 

And  so  she  died.  Never  another  word  left  her  lips; 
her  last  words  were  of  him, —  a  prayer  for  the  pardon 
of  the  man  who  had  so  cruelly  wronged  her. 

And  there  he  stood,  motionless,  powerless,  bereft  of 
all  his  sejQses. 

A  shriek  burst  from  Mary  Farly's  lips  at  sight  of 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  159 

this  awful,  unexpected  denouement ;  the  sound  of  hur- 
ried footsteps  were  on  the  stairs ;  then  two  policemen 
entered  the  room  where  the  tragedy  had  just  taken 
place,  and  took  him  off,  unresisting,  speechless. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

TO   THE   WORLD. 

news  of  the  tragedy  "at  Derville's,"  and  the 
-L  arrest  of  Mr.  Charles  Wilton,  occasioned  the  greatest 
excitement  and  astonishment.  The  wildest  rumors  for 
a  time  prevailed.  The  elegant  Mr.  Wilton,  the  pet  of 
society,  the  man  who  had  been  courted  and  admired 
by  the  "  Upper  Ten,"  a  common  murderer  ?  Yes,  it 
was  true.  Society  had  received  and  admired  and  fos- 
tered a  common  criminal !  How  could  society  take 
revenge  on  this  man  who  had  made  a  dupe  of  it  but 
by  turning  its  back  upon  him  ?  Society  did  so ;  and 
Mr.  Wilton  had  many  enemies  who  had  feared  him  in 
his  days  of  power,  who,  now  that  he  was  down,  de- 
termined to  keep  him  down. 

Mary  Farly  visited  him  often,  and  prayed,  begged, 
beseeched  him  to  write  a  confession  of  the  part  he  had 
acted  in  the  murder  of  Leslie  Wyndham  ;  but  he  per- 
sistently denied  and  refused.  Hope  was  not  dead  in 
his  breast  yet.  But  whatever  hopes  he  may  have  en- 
tertained of  escape,  they  were  soon  blasted.  He  went 
back  to  his  cell  one  day  condemned  to  death. 

She  visited  him  a  few  days  before  the  time  appointed 


160  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

for  the  carrying  out  of  the  dread  sentence  of  the 
law. 

u  There  is  no  hope  for  you,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am 
sorry  for  you.  Your  life  is  drawing  to  a  close,  and 
whatever  you  may  do  cannot  make  your  name  (believe 
me,  I  do  not  mean  to  wound  your  feelings)  more  igno- 
minious than  it  now  is.  I  ask  you,  I  beg  of  you,  as 
a  last  act  of  justice,  as  one  good  act  of  your  life,  to 
grant  my  wishes.  It  cannot  injure  you;  it  will  make 
me  feel  more  at  rest." 

"  See  here,"  he  answered,  after  a  few  moments,  pause, 
"  I  have  no  cause  to  thank  you,  for  but  for  you  I  would 
not  be  here  to-day ;  and  yet  I  admire  you  for  your 
pluck  and  courage.  I  cannot  help  it,  and  I  will  do 
what  you  desire,  on  one  condition." 

"  Name  the  condition,"  she  replied,  "  and  if  I  can, 
I  will  perform  it." 

He  whispered  it  to  her.  She  recoiled  as  if  a  ser- 
pent had  struck  her. 

"  Well,  as  you  wish,"  he  said,  nonchalantly. 

She  thought.  She  knew  that  what  he  asked  of  her 
•was  wrong ;  but  was  she  wrong  in  agreeing  to  his  con- 
ditions, in  view  of  the  end  to  be  attained  thereby  ? 

She  did  agree,  and  promised  not  to  make  it  public 
until  one  year  after  his  death ;  and  the  confession  was 
duly  made  and  witnessed. 

On  the  day  named  for  the  execution,  the  jailer,  upon 
entering  his  cell,  found  him  cold  and  still  —  dead  ! 

"  Committed  suicide ! " 

No  one  could  tell  how  or  who  had  furnished  him 
with  the  means.  There  remained  but  the  bare  fact 
that  he  had  committed  the  last  terrible  act  in  a  long 
career  of  crime. 


THE  WOBLD  TO  BLAME.  161 

There  he  lie  —  dead  !  by  his  side,  one  hand  almost 
resting  on  it,  a  pile  of  manuscript,  evidently  just  com- 
pleted, for  the  ink  with  which  his  name  had  been  signed 
was  not  quite  dry,  the  first  words  of  which,  written  in 
large  letters,  attracted  the  jailer's  attention. 

He  took  it  up  with  a  shudder,  gave  an  alarm,  and 
then  proceeding  to  his  private  office  began  to  read  the 
suicide's  last  words.  The  manuscript  ran  thus : 

TO  THE  WORLD ! 

HOW   I   BECAME   A   CRIMINAL. 

Perhaps,  what  I  am  about  to  write  may  be  the 
means  of  saving  many  who  are  now  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  crime,  the  doors  of  which,  always  open, 
are  only  waiting  to  close  on  them,  from  coming  to  the 
miserable  end  which  stares  me  in  the  face;  perhaps, 
even  my  life,  my  death,  may  teach  the  world  a  lesson 
of  incalculable  benefit,  —  may  prove  to  have  been  far 
better  for  it  than  the  life  of  its  best  and  purest 
man. 

My  mother,  in  her  youth,  must  have  been  exceedingly 
beautiful,  for  even  at  the  age  of  forty,  despite  all  the 
trouble  she  had  then  passed  through,  I  remember  that 
she  was  a  handsome  woman.  But  she  had  not  beauty 
alone  to  recommend  her.  She  was  well  educated, 
talented,  and  the  only  child  of  wealthy  parents,  whose 
pride  was  even  greater  than  their  riches. 

Of  course,  she  had  many  lovers.     She  could  have 
taken  her  choice  from  the  richest  and  highest,  in  point 
of  social  standing,  young  men  in  the  city. 
14*  L 


162  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

Among  these  admirers  of  hers  were  two,  whom  I 
will  call  Albert  Crompton  and  Philip  Martindale. 
Were  I  to  name  the  former,  the  memory  of  an  old 
man  who  occupied  a  prominent  position  in  what  is,  it 
has  often  seemed  to  me  satirically,  called  Society,  would 
suddenly  cease  to  be  cherished.  He  was,  at  the  time 
of  which  I  write,  rich,  —  in  fact,  it  had  been  his  good 
fortune  to  be  born  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  —  but  far 
from  attractive.  Martindale,  on  the  other  hand,  pos- 
sessed a  fascinating  exterior,  was  very  talented,  and 
very  poor  !  Such  is  chance,  and  so  does  fortune  divide 
her  favors.  Is  the  division  equal  ?  Not  by  any  means. 
To  be  poor,  in  those  days  was,  and  in  these  is,  to  be 
guilty  of  a  monstrous  crime. 

With  the  parents,  Crompton,  it  may  easily  be  divined, 
was  the  favorite.  To  have  him  for  a  son-in-law  was 
the  pinnacle  of  their  ambition.  Indeed,  between  him 
and  Martindale  they  showed  no  favoritism.  Favor- 
itism ?  Why,  the  very  idea  was  ridiculous !  What 
was  Martindale  anyway?  Who  was  he?  Only  a 
poor  secretary!  Surely,  he  could  never  dream  of 
aspiring  to  the  hand  of  the  rich  man's  daughter? 
The  rich  man  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  But 
Martindale  did !  He  forgot  that  love  was  not  made 
for  poor  people.  What  right  has  a  poor  man  to  love  ? 
If  you  saw  a  man  put  a  stone  around  his  neck  to  drag 
him  down,  when  he  wished  to  go  up,  what  would  you 
call  him?  A  fool?  The  word  is  not  half  forcible 
enough. 

Well,  it  was  the  old  story.  The  rich  man's  daughter 
loved  the  rich  man's  poor  secretary,  made  what  is 
termed  a  mesalliance,  and  was  disowned  by  her  parents. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  163 

The  poor  man  had  love,  and  expected  to  do  wonders 
with  it.  He  made  a  mesalliance  too ;  in  fact,  he  was 
guilty  of  a  crime :  for,  if  any  apology  can  be  made  for 
poor  people  marrying  at  all,  surely  none  can  be  found 
for  a  poor  man  who  takes  a  girl  accustomed  to  luxury 
to  a  home  of  poverty.  Such  a  man  is  guilty  of  a 
crime. 

Martindale  soon  found  out  his  mistake.  It  is  not 
to  be  expected  that  a  girl  accustomed  to  having  her 
every  wish  gratified  can  endure  poverty,  and  not 
grumble.  There  may  be  an  exceptional  case,  but  in 
the  great  majority  the  woman  is  sure  to  regret  the  step 
she  has  made.  This  is  only  human  nature,  —  nothing 
more,  —  and  this  was  the  case  with  the  secretary's 
wife.  Not  that  there  was  any  positive  outbreak, — 
any  great  quarrels.  No ;  but  there  were,  frequently, 
murmurings  of  discontent,  and  petulant  words,  and 
sad  looks,  which  spoke  only  too  plainly,  and  cut  poor 
Martindale  to  the  heart. 

He  saw  that  he  had  cause  to  regret  the  rashness  of 
his  love.  He  saw  that  he  had  done  wrong. 

"  Her  I  love  best  I  have  injured  most,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  I,  a  poor  man,  had  no  right  to  marry;  and 
if  I  must  have  married,  I  should  not  have  chosen  out- 
side of  my  own  circle." 

Thus,  at  times,  my  mother  heard  him  soliloquize. 
But  still,  however,  they  were  for  a  while,  on  the  whole, 
comparatively  happy.  So  long  as  he  had  only  him- 
self and  wife  to  support,  Martindale  managed  to  get 
along  —  and  that  was  all.  But,  alas  !  he  added  a  third 
crime  to  his  list.  His  first  crime  was  poverty ;  his 
second,  marrying ;  his  third  and  greatest,  bringing 


164  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

children  into  the  world.  For  what  right  has  a  man 
who  finds  it  out  of  his  power  to  keep  himself  and  wife 
comfortably  to  bring  innocent  beings  to  life  to  share 
in  his  misery?  What  justification  can  he  offer  for 
thus  entailing  misery  and  suffering  on  others  who  are 
powerless  to  prevent  it?  Is  it  not  a  crime? 

I  asked  a  question  above,  viz.,  What  would  you 
think  of  a  man  who  puts  a  stone  around  his  neck  to 
drag  him  down,  when  he  wished  to  go  up?  Suppose, 
now,  that  man  kept  on  putting  stones  around  his  neck, 
what  would  you  think  of  him  then  ?  Can  you  find  a 
word  expressive  enough  ?  Yet  this  was  just  what 
Martindale  did.  This  was  his  third  crime ;  for,  surely, 
if,  as  I  hold,  a  man  has  no  right  to  marry  unless  he 
knows  that  he  can  keep  his  wife  comfortably,  much 
less  has  he  a  right  to  have  children.  This  is  my  theory ; 
the  practice  is  very  different ;  for  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  poorer  the  people  the  larger  the  family.  A  poor 
man  has  no  end  of  children ;  a  rich  man  usually  has 
but  few. 

Martindale  had  six — four  girls  and  two  boys,  one  of 
whom  was  myself.  Two  of  the  girls  died  in  babyhood ; 
died  from  want  of  proper  care  —  from  want  of  proper 
nourishment.  What  could  my  parents  do?  They 
worked  hard  enough,  God  knows!  But  with  eight 
mouths  to  feed  on  the  starvation  wages  of  two  people, — 
how  could  it  be  done  properly  ?  My  mother  was  proud, 
and  so  was  my  father,  —  so  proud  that  they  would  rather 
have  died  than  have  asked  for  charity. 

Things  grew  worse  and  worse.  With  the  despera- 
tion of  despair  my  parents  struggled  along.  They 
gave  their  children  love ;  they  did  all  they  could  for 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  165 

their  offspring.  No  one  knew  how  we  managed  to 
live  at  home.  My  father,  proud  as  the  richest  and 
greatest,  kept  up  a  semblance  of  what  is  called  "  ap- 
pearances " — such  it  was  for  people  living  in  a  crowded, 
dirty  tenement.  We  were  starving  gradually,  but  no 
one  knew  it. 

Our  co-tenants,  poor  and  miserable  themselves, 
managed  to  eke  out  an  existence,  and  imagined  we 
were  doing  the  same.  They  never  knew  how  hard 
things  were  with  us  —  how  we  lived.  Lived?  It 
was  no  life.  We  did  not  live.  We  only  kept  on  dying. 

My  father,  understanding  the  worth  of  a  good  edu- 
cation, determined  that  his  children  should  never  have 
cause  to  blame  him  for  not  giving  them  one.  And  so, 
despite  his  poverty,  he  kept  us  at  school,  working  the 
harder  to  sustain  existence.  At  first  he  tried  author- 
ship. This  did  not  succeed.  He  could  not  publish 
his  own  works,  and  publishers  returned  them  "  respect- 
fully declined."  And  yet  his  works  were  far  superior 
to  the  majority  of  those  issued.  But  he  was  unknown 
in  the  world  of  letters,  and  he  could  not  get  an  open- 
ing and  receive  compensation  for  his  labor. 

"There  is  no  encouragement  of  home  talent  in 
America,"  he  used  to  say.  "  Foreign  authors  sell  here; 
American  talent  is  dying  for  want  of  nourishment. 
We  have  just  as  great  writers  here  as  in  any  part  of  the 
world,  —  unknown  men,  who,  if  they  could  but  be 
heard,  would  make  a  lasting  name.  It  is  easy  enough 
saying  that  a  publisher  will  take  anything  if  it  is  good, 
but  let  an  unknown  man,  without  money  and  friends, 
try  to  secure  a  publisher  in  his  own  country,  and  see 
what  will  be  the  result." 


166  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

I  have  said  that  my  father's  works  were  good.  How 
do  I  know  ?  Because  a  play  which  he  wrote  was  stolen 
by  the  Manager  to  whom  he  sent  it,  and  produced  with 
great  success.  What  could  my  father  do  ?  Nothing  ! 
His  work  was  not  copyrighted ;  he  had  no  proof —  no 
witness  but  himself;  he  had  no  money  to  spend  in 
law,  —  he  was  helpless. 

I  was  sixteen  when  I  graduated.  My  brother,  who 
was  not  at  all  inclined  to  study,  had  left  previously, 
and  was  working  on  a  small  salary.  My  sisters  were 
yet  at  school. 

I  procured  a  situation  down  town  at  the  enormous 
salary  of  four  dollars  a  week,  and  so,  for  a  while,  be- 
tween us  four  —  my  brother,  father,  mother,  and  my- 
self, —  we  managed  to  live  a  little  better  than  we  had 
been  accustomed  to. 

One  day,  my  mother  met  her  old  lover,  Albert 
Crompton,  in  the  street.  She  was  still  handsome, 
despite  the  trouble  she  had  known,  and  the  sight  of 
her  lit  up  the  old  flame  in  his  breast.  He  had  not  for- 
gotten or  forgiven  her;  he  still  remembered  her  with 
a  mad  passion,  —  a  passion  altogether,  or  nearly  so, 
sensual.  When  she  married  my  father,  it  had  been 
a  great  blow  to  him.  From  that  moment  he  had 
nourished  a  hatred  against  my  father  —  a  fierce,  bitter, 
vindictive  hatred. 

The  sight  of  my  mother,  whom  he  had  not  seen  in 
some  years,  revived  his  mad  passion,  and  all  the  old 
bitter  memories  which  had  never  been  quite  dead. 

He  immediately  instituted  inquiries  and  learnt  all 
about  us ;  found  out  how  poor  we  were,  and  then,  as  I 
afterwards  learnt  from  her  own  lips,  made  her  an  in- 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  167 

famous  proposal.  She  immediately  rejected  it,  with 
words  of  scathing  scorn,  and  he  left  her,  breathing 
vengeance. 

That  night,  when  my  father  came  home,  I  noticed 
that  he  was  unusually  downcast.  The  truth  came  out. 
He  had  been  discharged  by  his  employer.  When  he 
asked  for  a  reason,  the  only  answer  he  received  was, 
that  "  business  was  dull,  and  expenses  must  be  cur- 
tailed." 

The  following  day  my  brother  came  home  —  dis- 
charged. My  father  and  he  endeavored  to  procure 
other  situations,  —  vainly.  Manual  labor  was  not  in 
their  sphere ;  they  were  not  strong  enough,  —  and  no 
other  could  be  got. 

The  whole  support  of  the  family  fell  on  my  mother 
and  myself.  We  worked  like  slaves,  and  I  saw  with 
pain  that  her  strength  and  health  were  breaking  down 
from  over- work,  over-taxation. 

I  was,  naturally,  exceedingly  ambitious.  I  dreamt 
of  fame  and  greatness,  and  my  leisure  hours  I  had 
spent  in  the  composition  of  a  work  which  was  to  gain 
them  for  me.  My  hopes  in  this  respect  were  blasted. 
My  attempt  at  authorship  met  with  the  same  fate  as 
my  father's  had,  previously.  Oh  !  the  cruelty  of  that 
"  respectfully  declined  !  "  If  they  had  read  my  work, 
I  would  not  have  heeded  it  so  much ;  but  I  knew  that 
it  had  not  even  been  looked  at,  for  I  received  it  back, 
unopened,  on  the  same  day  on  which  I  had  left  it.  I 
had  gone  to  the  publisher's  full  of  hope,  —  dreaming 
of  the  happiness  which  I  was  about  to  give  my  father 
and  mother  —  thinking  that  I  would  be  able,  alone,  to 
support  the  family.  Alas !  my  hopes  were  blasted.  I 


168  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

felt  that  day  that  darkness  had  closed  in  all  around 
me  ;  I  looked  into  the  future  and  saw  nothing  bright, — 
nothing  to  encourage  me.  I  blamed  my  father  for 
ever  bringing  me  into  the  world — I  blamed  him,  in 
my  selfishness,  for  being  poor.  My  brain  whirled  as 
I  thought  of  what  I  could  do,  if  I  only  had  money ! 
I  looked  at  my  mother  working  like  a  slave ;  I  looked 
at  my  father,  a  stony  expression  of  despair  in  his  eyes; 
I  looked  at  my  brother  (who  had,  at  last,  secured  a 
situation  as  copyist  on  a  salary  of  six  dollars  a  week), 
moody  and  silent,  and  full  of  a  bitterness  which  he 
could  not  conceal,  and  my  sensitive  nature  received  a 
shock  to  think  that  I  could  not  do  anything  to  help 
them.  Oh !  I  felt  the  cruel  stings  of  poverty  then  if 
ever  a  human  being  did !  Had  I  been  alone,  I  knew 
that  in  time  I  would  rise ;  but  with  others  to  look  after, 
I  had  no  chance. 

That  day  another  misfortune  befell  us.  The  factory 
at  which  my  mother  worked  failed,  and  all  hands  were 
thrown  out  of  employment. 

I  looked  at  my  father  when  he  heard  the  news,  and 
I  saw  a  fierce  resolve  in  his  eyes  that  appelled  me.  I 
could  not  make  out  the  expression  ;  I  could  only  see 
that  he  had  formed  some  desperate  resolve — that  he 
was  frenzied.  Had  he  not  trouble  enough  to  frenzy 
him  ?  He  was  a  husband  who  loved  his  wife ;  —  he 
saw  himself  unable  to  support  her,  when  he  would 
have  died  to  have  made  her  happy.  He  was  a  father 
who  loved  his  children ;  —  he  saw  them  deprived  of 
the  necessaries  of  life.  John,  my  brother,  made  six 
dollars  a  week  j.  he  managed,  by  doing  odd  work  which 
galled  his  pride,  and  day  by  day  shortened  his  life  by 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  169 

years,  to  make  eight,  and  I  made  four  —  eighteen  dol- 
lars a  week,  now  that  my  mother's  work  had  failed, 
was  all  there  was  to  support  a  family  of  six ! 

He  sat  up  late  that  night.  He  did  nothing  but 
write,  write,  write.  He  was  out  of  the  house  early  on 
the  following  morning.  When  I  came  home,  I  saw 
him  sitting  there  like  a  statue.  He  seemed  to  be  in  a 
state  of  great  nervousness.  The  least  sound  startled 
him — at  the  opening  of  a  door,  the  fall  of  a  footstep, 
he  started. 

My  mother  called  me  aside,  —  I  was  her  confidant 
always,  —  and  showed  me  a  hundred  dollar  bill. 

"  Your  father  brought  this  home  to-day,"  she  said, 
"  and  gave  it  to  me  saying,  that  he  had  borrowed  it 
from  an  old  friend,  who  was  going  to  give  him  profit- 
able employment,  and  telling  me  to  give  the  children 
a  treat  for  once  in  their  lives."  And  then  she  added, 
in  a  whisper,  "  I  fear  he  has  done  something  wrong ! " 

And  so  he  had.  That  night  he  was  arrested.  In 
his  desperation  he  had  forged  a  check  on  his  old  em- 
ployer. My  mother  gave  the  money  up.  She  could 
not  blame  him.  She  realized  his  position ;  she  saw  that 
he  had  done  it  for  our  benefit.  *  *  *  He  was  found 
dead  in  his  cell  in  the  morning.  He  had  died  during 
the  night  —  died  of  the  shame  and  disgrace.  He  had 
committed  the  crime  to  benefit  us ;  the  effect  was  the 
contrary.  This  was  the  result :  the  shock  threw  my 
mother  on  a  sick  bed,  John  and  I  were  discharged  at 
the  end  of  the  week,  —  we  were  the  sons  of  a  criminal, 
and  his  sin  was  visited  upon  us,  —  his  eight  dollars, 
which  had  gone  far  to  our  support,  was  now  lost,  and 

starvation  stared  us  in  the  face. 
15 


170  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

When  I  entered  the  room  on  that  Saturday  night, — 
four  days  after  my  father's  death,  —  I  saw  Crorapton 
there.  Oh  !  what  a  terrible  temptation  he  was  holding 
out  to  my  mother !  If  she  yielded,  her  children  would 
be  removed  from  the  danger  of  starvation.  I  think 
she  was  on  the  point  of  yielding  when  I  entered  the 
room,  but  the  sight  of  me  checked  her.  She  ordered 
him  out  of  the  house.  He  saw,  then,  that  as  long  as  I 
was  with  her  he  had  nothing  to  hope. 

On  Monday  morning,  sick  as  she  was,  my  mother 
went  out  in  search  of  work,  and  John  and  I  followed 
her  example.  Well,  there  is  no  use  in  detailing  how 
we  managed  for  the  next  six  months.  As  soon  as 
people  found  out  who  we  were,  —  and  somehow  or 
another  they  learnt  it  in  a  few  days,  —  perhaps,  Cromp- 
ton  had  something  to  do  with  it,  —  we  were  discharged. 
No  one  would  trust  the  wife  and  children  of  a  criminal. 

We  were  born  proud  ;  we  endured  everything,  rather 
than  ask  for  charity.  No  one  inquired  about  us ;  no 
one  paid  any  attention  to  our  welfare. 

The  climax  came  at  last.  One  night  John  failed  to 
come  home,  and  that  same  night  my  mother  was  pros- 
trated. She  had  been  fasting  for  two  days ;  my  little 
sisters  had  been  fasting  for  two  days ;  I  had  been  fast- 
ing for  two  days.  And  we  had  not  a  cent. 

I  heard  my  sisters  crying  for  something  to  eat;  I 
saw  my  mother  lying  sick  and  helpless,  moaning  for 
bread  for  her  little  ones,  and  I  powerless  to  give  them 
what  they  asked.  My  brain  whirled,  and  my  heart 
sank  with  despair.  Oh !  the  agony  I  endured. 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Bread !  bread  !  I  must 
have  bread ! 


THE  WOKLD  TO  BLAME.  171 

I  dashed  out  into  the  street,  mad  with  despair !  I 
ran  against  a  man.  I  saw  that  he  held  a  watch  in  his 
hand.  Before  he  was  aware  of  my  purpose,  I  had  it  in 
my  possession ;  before  he  could  recover  from  his  as- 
tonishment, I  had  disappeared  from  his  sight.  He  had 
caught  a  glance  of  my  face ;  that  was  all.  I  did  not 
give  myself  time  to  think.  I  rushed  into  a  pawn-shop. 
The  pawnbroker  knew  me ;  I  had  been  in  his  place 
often  before  to  pledge  what  little  jewelry  my  mother 
had  kept.  He  advanced  me  a  pittance,  —  the  two- 
hundreth  part  of  the  value  of  the  watch.  Never 
mind  ;  it  was  enough.  It  would  buy  bread ;  it  would 
buy  a  little  something  —  something  delicate  —  for  my 
sick  mother. 

I  brought  them  home  something  to  eat.  I  saw  them 
devour  it  with  avidity.  Not  even  my  mother  thought 
to  ask  me  any  questions.  I  saw  her  eyes  light  up  at 
the  sight  of  the  little  girls  eating.  I  saw  her  satisfy- 
ing the  hunger  that  was  gnawing  at  her  vitals.  I  could 
not  eat.  She  clasped  me  in  her  arms ;  she  pressed  me 
to  her  breast ;  she  called  me  her  darling,  and  my  heart 
was  too  choked  for  utterance. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  knock  on  the  door.  I  started 
with  fear.  The  sense  of  what  I  had  done  rushed  over 
me  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning. 

The  door  opened.  My  worst  fears  were  realized. 
The  pawnbroker  and  a  policeman  entered.  To  be 
short,  I  found  I  had  made  a  great  mistake  in  going  to 
that  pawn-shop  where  I  was  so  well  known,  for  it  so 
chanced  that  the  man  I  had  robbed  was  the  pawn- 
broker's nephew,  —  a  young  man  from  another  State, 
on  a  visit. 


172  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

As  they  entered,  ray  mother  raised  herself  in  the 
bed,  and  pale  as  she  was,  I  saw  her  cheek  blanch. 

My  little  sisters,  trembling  with  a  vague  foreboding 
of  disaster,  caught  each  other's  hands  and  edged  close 
to  her  side. 

I  arose.     I  knew  that  the  end  had  come. 

"  That  is  him  —  the  villain  !  the  young  thief! "  said 
the  pawnbroker. 

The  officer  advanced ;  he  grasped  me  by  the  shoulder. 

"  I  must  arrest  you,  my  man,"  he  said ;  "  you  are 
charged  with  highway  robbery  !  " 

"  That 's  it !  that 's  it !  the  villain ! "  said  the  pawn- 
broker. 

"  Highway  —  robbery !   Oh,  God  ! " 

It  was  my  mother  who  gasped  the  words,  and  as  the 
last  one,  uttered  in  a  tone  that  cut  me  to  the  heart, 
escaped  her  lips,  she  fell  back. 

I  dared  not  look  at  her. 

"  Ma !  ma !  oh,  ma !  "  cried  my  sisters  in  an  agonized 
voice,  "  oh,  ma !  don't  die !  " 

"Die/" 

The  steel  entered  my  soul.  I  felt,  for  a  moment, 
like  one  struck  suddenly  with  paralysis. 

"  Leave  me ! "  I  said  hoarsely  to  the  officer ;  "  leave 
me,  and  take  him  out  of  the  room.  In  a  minute  I 
will  be  ready,  —  I  will  go  with  you.  Leave  me  alone 
for  a  minute  with  her,  —  with  my  mother.  Leave  me, 
will  you  ?  " 

"  No !  no ! "  cried  the  pawnbroker.  "  He  will  run 
away." 

The  policeman,  touched  despite  of  himself,  answered 
the  cruel  words  with  a  look ;  then  pointed  to  the  door, 
and  followed  the  pawnbroker  out. 


THE   WORLD   TO   BLAME.  173 

And  then  I  was  left  alone ;  alone  with  my  two  weep- 
ing sisters,  and  what  I  had  no  doubt  was  the  corpse 
of  my  mother. 

I  caught  a  sight  of  myself  in  the  glass.  My  face 
was  haggard,  my  lips  white,  my  eyes  stony. 

For  a  moment  I  stood  perfectly  motionless.  No 
words  can  describe  the  tumult  of  my  feelings.  I  felt 
that  I  had  been  wronged ;  that  the  world  had  used  me 
harshly.  The  fires  of  hell  burned  within  my  breast. 
In  that  one  moment  I  went  to  the  bad ! 

The  little  ones  had  ceased  their  cries  and  fallen  sud- 
denly into  a  deep  sleep,  and  an  oppressive  silence 
reigned  in  the  room. 

I  advanced  to  the  bedside  and  gazed  intently  on  the 
still,  white  face,  so  calm  in  its  repose.  A  multitude  of 
thoughts,  too  confused  and  indistinct  for  expression, 
surged  through  my  mind.  My  heart  was  bursting 
with  emotion,  and  my  whole  being  thrilled  with  a 
nameless  sensation. 

She  was  dead,  and  she  had  been  my  mother.  My 
mother  —  and  I  had  never  been  able  to  provide  her 
with  the  least  luxury ;  I  had  never  been  able  to  give 
her  one  moment's  peaceful  rest.  Others  had  been 
rolling  in  wealth,  while  we  were  starving. 

I  thought,  then,  of  my  father's  last  rash  act.  He 
had  committed  the  crime  out  of  love  for  us ;  he  had 
meant  to  aid  us,  and  he  had  worked  our  ruin.  He 
made  us  the  wife  and  children  of  a  criminal, — a 
criminal  who  had  been  painted  as  guilty  of  the  black- 
est ingratitude,  for  no  one  ever  knew  the  truth,  —  and 
no  one  would  trust  us !  Even  when  the  employer 

would  have  retained  us,  there  was  a  cry  raised  by  the 
15* 


174  THE  WOULD  TO  BLAME. 

employees  against  him.  T/iey  could  not  afford  to  be 
contaminated  by  our  presence. 

Why,  you  may  ask,  had  we  not  emigrated  to  some 
strange  place  where  our  history  was  unknown  ?  Why  ? 
One  word  will  answer  the  question :  money  ! 

Well,  the  end  had  come  at  last.  Her  troubles  were 
all  over.  There  was  some  happiness  in  that  thought. 

I  bent  over  and  kissed  her  cold,  mute  lips  for  the 
last,  last  time.  My  grief  was  driving  me  wild,  and  I 
had  not  a  tear  to  relieve  me. 

"  Mother !  mother  !  "  I  cried,  "  I  have  been  am- 
bitious ;  I  have  tried  to  be  great  and  good,  but  they 
would  not  let  me.  Now  they  shall  feel  my  sting  ;  now 
I  shall  be  great  and  bad  !  " 

I  turned  away.  I  had  done  forever  with  the  old 
life.  I  said  not  a  word  to  the  little  ones ;  I  did  not 
even  murmur,  "  God  help  you ! "  I  had  ceased  to 
believe  in  the  power  of  God  to  help  or  save. 

When  the  officer  entered  the  room,  he  found  me 
standing  like  a  statue  carved  out  of  stone,  but  ready  to 
go  with  him. 

The  next  morning  I  learnt  another  lesson  on  the 
difference  between  being  rich  and  poor.  A  rich 
murderer  was  driven  in  a  carriage  to  the  Court-House. 
How  was  it  with  me  ?  Was  I  driven  to  the  court- 
room ?  No  !  I,  with  others,  was  made  to  walk  in  the 
public  street  with  manacles  on  my  wrists,  and  followed 
by  a  gaping,  curious  crowd. 

My  eyes  fell.  Remember  that  this  was  my  first  ex- 
perience in  the  ways  of  the  transgressor.  Remember 
that  I  was  not  a  hardened  criminal,  dead  to  all  shame. 
I  felt  "the  humiliation  keenly.  I  said  to  myself,  there 


THE  WOBLD  TO  BLAME.  175 

is  no  use  of  my  trying  to  be  good  now ;  everybody  will 
know  me. 

That  experience  hardened  me.  Think  of  it !  And 
remember,  too,  that  some  of  my  fellow-prisoners  were 
innocent  men  !  I  could  swear  that  after  that  day  they 
became  criminals. 

Can  you  imagine  any  quicker,  any  surer  way  of 
deadening  a  man's  feelings,  of  making  him  lost  to  all 
shame,  of  killing  every  finer  sensibility  of  his  nature, 
than  by  walking  him  manacled  through  the  public 
street,  with  a  gaping,  grinning  crowd  at  his  heels  ? 

My  spirit  revolted  ;  I  felt  that  it  would  be  the  acme 
of  bliss  to  crush  the  entire  world  out  of  existence.  I 
was  ready  for  anything  desperate!  You  will  not 
wonder,  then,  that  when  I  saw  Crompton's  face  among 
the  spectators  behind  me,  and  saw  his  eyes  light  up 
with  demoniac  triumph  as  they  fell  upon  my  counte- 
nance, I  rushed  quickly  upon  him,  before  my  guardian, 
unaware  of  my  purpose,  could  prevent  me. 

I  was  committed  for  trial.  I  was  tried  on  two 
charges,  one  for  highway  robbery,  and  the  other  for 
assault  and  battery.  I  made  no  defence;  it  would 
have  been  useless  to  have  made  the  attempt,  when  I 
had  no  witnesses  to  prove  any  facts  I  might  have 
stated. 

The  judge  kindly  told  me  that  I  was  a  desperate 
villain,  and  that  he  owed  it  to  the  community  to  put 
me  out  of  the  way  of  doing  harm  for  ten  years.  Oh, 
kind  judge!  most  merciful  judge  !  it's  so  easy  saying 
"ten  years."  What  do  you  know  of  prison  life? 
Why,  when  a  convict  who  killed  a  warden  offered  in 
his  defence  his  treatment  in  prison,  you  refused  to 


176  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

listen  to  a  word.  And  then  you  thought  him  an 
utterly  irredeemable  villain,  because,  when  you  refused 
to  hear  his  story,  he  sat  down,  invited  you  to  sentence 
him  to  death,  and  laughed  at  the  ceremony  of  the  jury 
bringing  in  a  verdict !  You  thought  him  heartless, 
because  he  said,  "  I  don't  consider  that  I  have  been 
tried  yet,  but  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  result. 
To  be  hanged  would  be  an  act  of  supreme  mercy,  com- 
pared to  being  compelled  to  live  in  the  State  prison."  * 

Well,  I  went  to  the  State  prison,  and  assumed  the 
convict's  garb.  Here  I  learnt  another  lesson  on  the 
power  of  money.  If  I  had  been  rich,  some  light  work 
would  have  been  assigned  to  me.  As  it  was,  I  was  put 
at  a  kind  of  work  for  which  I  was  utterly  unsuited, 
both  bodily  and  mentally  speaking.  My  health  at 
last  failed  me,  and  for  weeks  I  hovered  between  life 
and  death.  I  can't  say  that  I  received  the  best  treat- 
ment. It  mattered  not  whether  the  convict  lived  or 
died.  In  fact,  if  he  died,  it  was  so  much  the  better. 

When  I  recovered,  I  was  placed  in  the  shoe  factory. 
Did  I  learn  to  make  shoes  ?  Was  I  taught  any  trade 
by  means  of  which  I  could  make  an  honest  living 
when  released  from  imprisonment?  Not  a  bit  of  it! 
I  was  taught  a  special  branch  of  the  business,  but  I 
never  learnt  how  to  make  shoes.  I  could  no  more 
have  set  up  for  a  cobbler,  than  I  could  have  soared. 

I  have  to  find  great  fault  with  the  practice  of  teach- 
ing prisoners  a  special  part  of  a  work ;  for  instance, 
what  I  was  taught  —  cutting  leather.  It  is  not  easy 
to  secure  a  position  requiring  only  this  specialty.  If 
a  prisoner  is  expected  to  live  honestly,  upon  his  dis- 

*  The  very  words  used. 


THE   WORLD  TO  BLAME.  177 

charge,  he  should  be  taught  a  means  of  livelihood.  If 
he  is,  to  take  my  own  case,  put  in  the  shoe  department, 
he  should  learn  the  whole  business,  —  how  to  make  an 
entire  shoe,  not  how  to  make  a  part.  In  short,  he 
should  be  fitted  for  a  regular  cobbler. 

The  practice  in  the  prison  where  I  was  confined  was 
otherwise. 

Prisons,  you  say,  were  made  for  purposes  of  refor- 
mation. They  may  have  been  made  for  such  purposes, 
but  they  are  not  used  for  them.  Take  my  own  case 
again.  I  was  a  new  convict ;  it  was  my  first  offence. 
Yet,  instead  of  being  confined  in  a  separate  place,  I 
was  huddled  in  with  men  hardened  in  crime ;  men  who 
made  light  of  every  sin ;  who  took  the  prison  as  one 
of  the  natural  events  of  their  lives;  who  intended, 
when  they  were  released,  to  resume  their  law-breaking, 
but  to  be  more  careful  in  their  operations,  and  not  to 
be  caught  again,  if  they  could  help  it. 
.  What  could  be  the  effect  on  me  of  this  indiscriminate 
association  ?  Could  it  do  me  any  good  ?  Was  it  likely 
to  have  a  beneficial  effect  on  my  mind  ?  Or  was  it  not 
more  likely  to  harden  and  deprave  me — to  kill  what- 
ever of  the  good  remained  in  me?  The  poet  wrote 
truly : 

Vice  is  a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien, 
As  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen  ; 
But  seen  too  oft  —  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  endure  —  then  pity — then  embrace. 

Oh  !  I  tell  you,  your  prison  system  needs  a  thorough 
overhauling.  An  entire  change  in  the  method  of  treat- 
ing criminals  is  needed,  if  you  ever  expect  to  work 
their  reform.  Your  present  system  is  radically  bad. 

M 


178  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

Let  me  point  out  some  defects  in  the  State  prison 
where  I  was  confined.  It  was  very  improperly  guarded. 
The  keepers  were  men  utterly  unfit  for  the  position. 
They  were  brutal,  and  they  could  do  whatever  they 
wished.  They  had  full  power  to  obey  the  promptings 
of  their  malice.  If  they  took  a  dislike  to  a  man,  woe 
be  to  him.  On  the  other  hand,  the  rules  of  the  prison 
were  such  that  if  a  convict  felt  dissatisfied  with  any- 
thing, he  could  stop  his  work  on  the  instant,  and 
march  to  the  warden  with  his  complaint,  regardless  of 
the  keeper's  presence,  instead  of  being  compelled  to 
wait  until  a  regular  hour  set  apart  for  the  hearing  of 
complaints  by  the  warden.  This  was  not  calculated  to 
inspire  the  convict  with  a  sense  of  obedience  to  his 
keeper,  and  the  latter  had  to  rule  through  fear.  Again, 
if  the  keeper  denied  a  charge,  the  convict's  complaint 
was,  in  nine  out  of  ten  cases,  disregarded  entirely.  I 
admit  that  in  many  instances  their  complaints  had  no 
foundation  in  fact,  and  were  groundless.  But  there 
were  cases  which  came  under  my  observation,  —  in  one 
of  which /was  the  complainant,  —  which  demanded, 
and  should  have  received,  thorough  investigation,  but 
which  were  unheeded. 

Again,  by  reason  of  the  manner  in  which  the  prison 
was  guarded,  every  inducement  was  placed  in  the  con- 
vict's way  to  escape.  There  were  too  few  keepers  over 
too  many  men,  and  every  temptation  to  endeavor  to 
regain  his  liberty  was  placed  prominently  before  the 
prisoner,  so  that  he  could  not  refrain  from  forming  the 
idea.  When  one  did  make  the  attempt  and  failed, 
then  he  was  punished,  —  punished  for  obeying  the  im- 
pulse of  his  nature — for  being  a  human  creature  pos- 
sessed of  a  human  nature. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  179 

Well,  my  time  came  at  last,  and  I  was  set  at  liberty. 
Liberty  !  I  had  not  known  it  for  years,  and  my  heart 
beat  wildly  with  the  consciousness  of  freedom  as  I 
stepped  out  of  my  convict's  garb. 

Evidently,  however,  I  was  expected  to  return  before 
long,  for  the  last  words  —  cheering  words !  —  spoken 
to  me  were : 

"  Good-bye.      We  'II  see  you  soon  again." 

You  see  experience  had  taught  the  officials  that  they 
who  stopped  at  the  prison  once,  would  be  sure  to  re- 
turn. A  very  good  idea  of  the  reformatory  nature  of 
the  institution  they  had  ! 

But,  leaving  aside  the  effect  of  the  life  I  led  within 
those  walls,  was  it  not  natural  that  they  should  expect 
me  to  return  ?  Let  me  show  you  why  it  was  so : 

First.  I  knew  no  trade.  I  had  not  been  fitted  for 
any  business.  I  was  not  a  cobbler,  a  carpenter,  a 
plumber,  —  in  fact,  I  knew  as  little  when  I  came  out 
as  when  I  went  in;  I  was  just  as  ignorant  of  business; 
I  had  as  little  experience  to  help  me ;  I  had  nothing  to 
depend  on. 

Second.  I  had  no  place  to  which  to  go ;  no  situation 
of  any  kind  awaiting  me. 

Third.  My  prison  life  had  not  been  such  as  to  inspire 
me  with  the  idea  that  I  had  been  punished  to  teach  me 
that  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard,  and  that  good 
is  preferable  to  evil.  On  the  contrary,  I  had  an  in- 
distinct idea  that  I  had  been  persecuted,  and  that  I 
would  be  justified  in  revenging  my  wrongs  on  my 
persecutor,  viz.,  Society. 

Fourth.  I  had  but  money  enough  to  carry  me  to  my 
destination ;  I  would  arrive  there  penniless ;  I  could 


180  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

not  secure  any  kind  of  work  immediately ;  no  provision 
was  made  for  me  until  I  could,  if  I  desired,  by  search- 
ing, find  a  place ;  I  would  find  myself  homeless  and 
starving ;  my  mind  was  used  to  the  idea  of  crime,  and 
it  followed,  therefore,  that  I  would  not  be  so  apt  to 
hesitate  and  think  over  what  I  was  doing,  before  com- 
mitting an  offence  against  the  law. 

To  proceed.  I  jumped  aboard  a  city  bound  train. 
A  passenger  seated  by  my  side  —  I  wonder  if  he  had 
known  who  I  was,  would  he  have  changed  his  seat?  — 
was  reading  a  newspaper.  I  glanced  over  it.  A 
name,  Martindale,  caught  my  eye,  and  riveted  my 
attention  instantly.  I  asked  the  stranger  in  a  trem- 
bling voice  if  he  would  be  kind  enough  to  loan  me  his 
paper  for  a  second.  He  did  so  ;  he  did  not  know  that 
I  was  a  discharged  convict.  I  seized  the  paper  greedily. 
Imagine  with  what  emotions  I  read  this : 

"  A  man  was  found  dead  in Street  yesterday. 

Death  had  evidently  resulted  from  starvation.  De- 
ceased was  worn  almost  to  a  skeleton.  The  body  is 
believed  to  be  that  of  John  Martindale,  *a  bummer 
around  low  groggeries.  It  now  lies  in  the  Morgue. 
An  inquest  will  be  held,  and  the  body  interred  in 
Potter's  Field." 

The  paper  dropped  from  my  hands.  John,  my 
brother !  I  had  no  doubt  it  was  him.  So,  that  was 
the  end  to  which  he  had  come !  Died  alone,  homeless, 
friendless,  starving !  —  died  a  death  of  shame  and 
misery !  A  bitter  oath  escaped  my  lips,  as  I  thought 
of  it. 

And  my  sisters  ?  what  had  become  of  them  ?  Were 
they  alive  or  dead  ?  If  alive,  what  were  they  ? 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  181 

My  brain  was  kept  busy  with  the  most  horrible  con- 
jectures. 

The  train  arrived  at  the  depot,  and  I  stepped  off. 
I  was  in  the  city  again,  for  the  first  time  in  many  long 
years.  Where  should  I  go  ?  To  the  Morgue !  I 
would  go  look  at  the  corpse!  I  would  make  sure 
whether  it  was  John's  or  not.  I  remembered  that  in 
boyhood  he  had  printed  the  initials  of  his  name  on  his 
right  arm,  indelibly,  with  India  ink. 

As  I  walked  through  the  streets,  I  could  perceive 
many  changes  and  improvements  which  had  been  made 
since  last  I  had  wandered  along  them.  Everything 
seemed  strange  to  me.  For  the  time  being  my  atten- 
tion was  called  away  from  myself. 

At  length,  I  reached  the  Morgue.  I  stopped  a  mo- 
ment before  entering,  and  a  sense  of  my  own  hopeless 
condition  came  over  me  ;  a  thought  that  I,  some  day, 
might  be  brought  here,  flashed  across  my  brain.. 

A  little  solemn-looking  building  of  stone,  with  an 
architecture  of  tomb-like  severity  outside,  and  grave 
simplicity  within,  was  the  Morgue, — that  receptacle 
for  the  unknown  dead  yielded  up  by  the  river  and 
found  in  the  street.  They  lie  on  slabs  of  marble,  — 
each  on  its  narrow  shelf  laid  out, —  a  tube  curling  over 
from  which  a  continuous  spray  of  fresh  water  was 
showered  on  the  corpse.  On  a  hook  fixed  directly 
above  the  head  of  the  deceased,  the  articles  of  clothing 
which  were  on  the  body,  when  it  came  into  the  charge 
of  the  authorities,  were  hung. 

There  was  nothing  pleasant  in  the  sight ;  no  redeem- 
ing feature.  The  picture  presented  was  painted  in  jet 
16 


182  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

black ;  there  was  not  a  single  touch  of  white  to  relieve 
its  sombreness. 

The  corpse  of  a  woman,  — a  woman  who  had  evi- 
dently been  beautiful  in  life,  —  who  had,  doubtless, 

Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

for  they  took  her  from  out  of  the  river, — occupied  the 
first  slab.  It  was  easy  to  stand  still  for  a  moment  and 
tell  what  her  life  had  been.  It  required  no  vivid 
imagination  to  solve  the  mystery  of  her  death ;  to  read 
the  misery  of  her  life. 

There  was  to  me  a  sort  of  fascination  in  the  sight 
of  these  friendless  dead — in  the  endeavor  to  surmise 
the  history  of  each  of  these  unfortunates.  At  every 
slab  I  stood  for  more  than  a  minute,  and  gazed  intently 
on  the  corpse. 

Number  two  was  an  old  man.  He  had  been  found 
dead  in  the  street,  with  a  ghastly  gash  across  his  throat. 
I  looked  upon  the  poor  body,  but  my  thoughts  were 
not  of  him,  but  of  his  murderer.  Who  was  he? 
What  had  driven  him  into  crime  ?  Where  was  he  ? 
Was  he  wandering  restlessly  over  the  earth,  a  prey  to 
fear  and  remorse,  or  was  he  just  as  happy,  just  as  much 
at  his  ease,  just  as  free  in  his  mind,  as  though  his  hands 
had  never  been  steeped  in  the  blood  of  a  fellow-crea- 
ture? 

Sentiment  replied  affirmatively  to  the  first  question ; 
experience  answered  "  yes  "  to  the  last. 

Number  three  was  a  man.  There  was  a  small  hole 
in  his  forehead,  through  which  the  fatal  bullet  had 
entered  his  brain.  This  was  a  case  of  suicide ;  cause, 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  183 

poverty !  "What  misery  he  must  have  known,  what 
privation  and  suffering  he  must  have  endured,  before 
he  committed  the  rash  act  which  sent  his  body  to  the 
Morgue,  thence  to  be  conveyed  to  the  grave  of  the 
friendless  and  destitute  —  Potter's  Field  !  It  was  all 
over  now;  he  was  at  rest.  Perhaps  this  was  the 
happiest  hour  he  had  ever  known.  Who  could  say  ? 

The  next  was  another  case  of  suicide.  A  young 
man,  whose  features  told  plainly  that  he  had  belonged 
to  the  upper  grade  of  society.  Drink  and  debauchery 
had  brought  him  here.  Was  any  one  mourning  for  him  ? 

The  last  was  the  man  I  had  come  to  see,  —  my 
brother.  This  corpse  was  all  that  remained  of  him. 

"  Oh,  John !  John ! " 

An  official  passing  by  stopped  and  looked  at  me. 
Perhaps,  used  as  he  was  to  such  scenes,  the  agony  in 
my  voice  touched  him. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  he  asked. 

I  could  not  speak ;  I  could  not  answer. 

"  Perhaps  this  may  aid  your  memory,"  he  said ;  "  it 
was  the  only  thing  found  in  his  pockets." 

He  handed  me  a  small  tin-type.  It  was  the  picture, 
faded  somewhat,  of  a  woman.  It  sent  a  thrill  through 
me,  for  it  was  the  picture  of — 

My  mother ! 

Poor  John !  He  had  left  us,  doubtless,  with  some 
faint  idea  of  coming  back  within  a  short  time  with  the 
fruits  of  his  secret  labor  to  relieve  our  wants.  And 
we  had  never  seen  him  again !  Why  he  had  not  re- 
turned, I  would  never  know. 

But  he  had  never  parted  with  this  picture ;  he  had 
cherished  it  always ;  he  had  died  with  it  near  him. 


184  THE   WORLD  TO   BLAME. 

I  could  only  say  to  the  official  that  I  would  come 
again  on  the  morrow  to  claim  the  corpse ;  to  be  careful 
of  the  picture,  as  I  desired  to  bury  it  with  the  dead 
man.  And  then  I  left. 

I  was  glad  to  get  outside  of  the  dead-house  again. 
I  walked  along,  pondering  deeply,  my  eyes  bent  on  the 
ground.  Suddenly,  some  one  accosted  me. 

"Hello!" 

I  looked  up  with  a  start.  Before  me  stood  a  young, 
fine-looking  man,  arrayed  in  the  height  of  fashion.  I 
recognized  him.  He  was  a  fellow-convict.  We  had 
taken  a  liking  to  each  other  while  in  the  prison.  He 
had  been  released  a  month  previous  to  the  expiration 
of  my  time. 

"How  are  you?"  I  exclaimed.  "How  are  you 
getting  along  ?  " 

"  I  'm  well,  and  doing  well,"  he  replied.  "  How 
long  have  you  been  out  ?  " 

"  Since  this  morning." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  must  look  for  some  situation." 

"  Situation  ?  Fudge  !  "  He  was  younger  in  years, 
older  in  crime,  than  I  was.  "  Lord  bless  you  !  "  he 
continued,  with  a  laugh,  "  how  foolish  you  are !  Sup- 
pose you  are  asked  for  references, — you  will  be,  sure, — 
what  will  you  do?  refer  to  your  last  employer,  the 
State  ?  Pshaw !  You  will  never  get  along.  I  have 
tried  it,  I  tell  you !  I  know  what  it  is.  Just  come 
along  with  me,  if  you  want  to  find  out  what  it  is  to 
live.  We  '11  get  along  first-rate  together." 

He  used  very  potent  arguments :  they  seemed  to  me 
conclusive;  he  said  a  great  deal  to  me  with  a  serious- 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  185 

ness  of  which  I  had  not  thought  him  capable.     I  need 
not  repeat  all  he  said.    It  ended  in  my  going  with  him. 

Two  days  afterward  I  was  walking  along  Centre 
Street,  when  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  crowd  of 
urchins,  following  a  policeman  in  charge  of  a  woman. 
It  was  the  most  disgusting  sight  I  have  ever  seen. 
Her  dress  was  in  rags,  open  at  the  bosom,  falling  off 
her  back,  and  covered  with  dirt  and  vermin.  She 
staggered  along  the  street  screeching  snatches  of  a  wild 
obscene  song,  her  coarse,  unkempt  hair  strewn  down 
her  forehead,  her  features  distorted  beyond  recognition, 
her  face  bloated,  and  her  expression  fearfully  repulsive. 
Even  the  policeman  shrank  away  from  her  with  an 
indescribable  fear.  Never,  never  have  I  seen  a  human 
being  so  inexpressibly  loathsome. 

The  sight  sickened  me.  I  turned  away.  Shall  I 
tell  you  who  that  wretched  creature  was  ?  I  found  it 
out  afterwards. 

She  was  my  sister  —  one  of  the  little  girls  whom  I 
had  left  sleeping  the  sleep  of  innocent  childhood  on  the 
night  of  my  arrest !  *  *  *  * 

Let  me  make  a  retrospection. 

My  mother  had  not  been,  as  I  had  imagined,  dead. 
It  proved  to  be  only  a  faint. 

On  the  day  when  I  was  sentenced,  Crompton  called 
on  her.  She  was  without  a  protector,  and  too  ill  to 
work,  even  had  she  had  something  to  do.  He  repeated 
his  offer.  He  pointed  to  her  two  little  girls,  —  how 
were  they  to  live?  Thus  he  took  advantage  of  a 
mother's  love. 

Sick,  wearied,  despairing,  and  desperate,  she  suc- 
cumbed to  him. 
16* 


186  THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME. 

Unfortunately  for  her,  he  was  thrown  out  of  his  car- 
riage one  day,  a  month  afterwards,  and  killed.  I  think 
he  would  have  provided  for  her  had  he  lived ;  I  will 
do  him  the  justice  to  say  this.  As  it  was,  she  was  left 
penniless.  Worse,  for  even  her  reputation  was  lost 
now. 

Let  me  be  brief.  She  became  a  prostitute ;  the  little 
girls  grew  up  to  enter  upon  the  same  living  death. 
You  start,  Madame  Society ;  you  do  not  like  that  word 
prostitute.  Let  me  tell  you  that  prostitution  is  one  of 
your  greatest  protectors.  Unregulated,  it  is  an  evil, 
too;  with  proper  regulation  it  becomes  a  protection 
only. 

I  have  done.  I  have  written  more  than  I  originally 
designed.  It  was  my  intention  to  show  only  how  I 
came  to  take  my  first  step  in  crime,  and  now  I  will 
close. 

There  is  many  and  many  a  woman  who,  finding  her- 
self unable  to  make  an  honest  living,  or  to  procure 
honest  work  at  something  more  than  starvation  wages, 
is  listening  to  the  voice  of  the  tempter.  There  is  many 
and  many  a  starving  child  being  reared  in  ignorance  * 
and  crime,  being  educated  in  the  school  of  sin.  And 
there  is  many  and  many  a  family,  who,  deprived  of 
their  natural  supporter,  shunned  and  pointed  at  as  the 

*  A  late  report  of  the  Commissioner  of  Education  shows  that  there 
are  1,700,000  illiterate  white  youths  and  adults  in  the  country,  and 
another  half  million  of  children  under  ten  growing  up  in  ignorance. 
In  1860,  according  to  the  census,  there  were  346,893  illiterate  adults 
of  foreign  birth,  and  871,418  native  born.  There  were  in  Pennsyl- 
vania, 36,000;  New  York,  20,000;  Ohio,  41,000;  Indiana,  54,000, 
etc.  These  figures,  be  it  remembered,  though  as  full  as  can  be 
ascertained,  necessarily  fall  Jar  short  of  the  truth. 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  187 

wife  and  children  of  a  criminal,  unable  to  secure  the 
necessaries  of  life,  and  rendered  desperate  by  trouble, 
are  drifting  surely  and  rapidly  into  the  ranks  of  the 
enemies  of  law  and  society.  Who  will  save  them? 
Who  will  rescue  them  before  it  is  too  late? 

Oh  !  that  there  were  some  office  under  the  law  charged 
with  the  duty  of  caring  for  them.  It  is  the  law  that 
has  deprived  them  of  their  natural  protector.  It  is 
right  that  the  man  who  commits  a  crime  should  be 
punished.  It  is  wrong  that  the  innocent  should  be 
made  to  suffer  for  his  crime. 

Oh  !  I  repeat,  that  there  were  some  office  under  the 
law  charged  with  the  duty  of  caring  for  them ;  of 
aiding  those  who  would,  to  emigrate  to  some  new  place, 
where,  their  history  unknown,  they  could  begin  life 
anew ;  of  seeing  that  the  children  were  properly  edu- 
cated ;  that  the  wife,  and  those  of  the  offspring  who 
are  able,  were  provided  with  suitable  work,  —  for  I  do 
not  ask  the  law  to  encourage  idleness,  —  work  by 
means  of  which  they  could  earn  an  honest  living,  with- 
out feeling  that  they  were  dependent  on  charity,  with- 
out feeling  their  pride  hurt.  For  pride,  of  some  kind 
or  other,  is  the  most  natural  and  strongest  feeling  im- 
planted in  the  human  heart ;  pride,  which  will  keep 
the  greatest  coward  on  the  battle-field,  and  force  him 
to  be  brave.  If,  perchance,  there  be  a  case  found 
where  the  people  refuse  absolutely  to  work,  there  are 
the  vagrant  acts. 

But  it  would  be  a  waste  of  time  for  me  to  stop  and 
elaborate  the  particulars  of  the  plan  I  have  in  my 
mind.  Though  such  an  office,  properly  conducted, 
would,  in  a  short  time,  become  self-supporting,  and 


188  THE    WOKLD    TO    BLAME. 

even  yield  a  revenue,  I  can  see  no  prospect  of  its 
establishment.  Modern  philanthropy  consists  in 
show ;  in  the  erection  of  grand  buildings,  egotistically 
called  after  the  founder,  for  the  approbation  of  the 
world ;  in  asking  the  poor,  in  words  of  patronizing 
pity,  to  walk  in,  instead  of  your  taking  the  trouble  to 
find  them  out.  And  yet  you  know  well  enough  that 
the  really  poor  are  not  the  ones  who  go  begging  through 
the  streets  —  are  not  the  ones  who  go  seeking  after 
charity.  If  they  were,  you  would  never  have  to  read 
in  your  paper  the  words  "  Died  of  Starvation." 

Listen !  The  condition  of  the  masses  is  growing 
worse  and  worse.  The  spirit  of  Communism  is  spread- 
ing rapidly,  and  undermining  the  foundations  of 
society  —  the  spirit  of  Communism  in  its  very  worst 
form.  Unless  some  great  change  in  the  condition  of 
mankind  occurs  soon,  the  world  will  wake  some  day 
to  regret  its  neglect.  I  can  see  a  revolution  approach- 
ing ;  I  can  see,  though  dimly,  the  change  that  is  going 
to  take  place,  —  a  change  which  may  be  effected  by 
peaceable  measures,  but  which  is  far  more  likely  to  be 
the  result  of  a  Social  War,  and  the  shedding  of  streams 
of  human  blood.  CHARLES  WILTON. 

P.  S.  Says  Victor  Hugo,  "  The  three  great  problems 
of  the  age,  —  the  degradation  of  man  by  poverty,  the 
ruin  of  woman  by  starvation,  and  the  dwarfing  of 
childhood  by  physical  and  spiritual  night,  —  are  not 
solved." 

I  have  cheated  the  gallows.  With  my  dying 
breath  I  swear  that  the  paper  which  I  executed  before 
the  jailer  the  other  day  is  the  solemn  truth.  To  the 


THE  WORLD  TO  BLAME.  189 

prison  officials,  who  have  treated  me  so  kindly  during 
my  imprisonment,  I  return  my  sincere  thanks,  and 
also  to  the  clergymen  who  would  have  consoled  me  in 
my  last  hours,  and  I  ask  their  pardon  for  refusing  to 
receive  them.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  if  I  had  received 
the  same  treatment  in  my  youth  that  I  have  received 
during  my  imprisonment,  I  would  never  have  been 
brought  to  this  pass.  CHARLES  WILTON. 

That  was  all.  But,  oh,  what  a  scathing  commentary 
upon  society  those  last  few  words  were ! 

"If  1  had  received  the  same  treatment  in  my  youth 
that  I  have  received  during  my  imprisonment,  I  would 
never  have  been  brought  to  this  pass."  * 

Philosopher !  philanthropist !  humanitarian  !  Re- 
member those  words ;  they  contain  plenty  of  food  for 
thought  and  reflection.  They  were  the  last  words  of 
a  criminal  who  knew  what  he  was  saying,  who  was 
conscious  of  their  meaning.  They  showed  that  he 
might  have  been  made  something  other  than  he  was. 
They  said : 

"The  way  to  prevent  crime  is  not  to  punish  the  man, 

but  to  guard  and  look  after  the  boy." 
******* 

No  one  ever  knew  who  it  was  furnished  the  mur- 
derer of  poor,  unfortunate  Alice,  with  the  means  to 
commit  his  last  terrible  crime.  That  was  a  secret 
which  Mary  Farly  carried  with  her  to  the  grave,  and 
whatever  suspicions  the  jailer  might  have  had,  he 
wisely  kept  them  to  himself. 

Philip  Marten's  confession  did  not  give  the  name 

*  The  identical  words  used  by  a  celebrated  criminal. 
14*  L 


THE  WOULD  TO  BLAME. 

of  the  person  who  had  aided  him  in  gaining  an  en- 
trance to  his  victim's  house.  With  that  honor  which 
is  said  to  exist  among  thieves,  he  declined  to  reveal  it. 

True  to  the  promise  she  had  made  him,  Mary  Farly 
allowed  a  year  to  elapse  after  his  death  before  she  made 
the  true  facts  in  relation  to  the  murder  of  Leslie  Wynd- 
ham  public. 

How  they  were  received,  and.  the  surprise  and  ex- 
citement they  created,  can  better  be  imagined  than  de- 
scribed. They  carried  with  them  the  force  of  truth, 
and  little  by  little  other  circumstances  came  to  light, 
which  proved  conclusively  the  innocence  of  the  un- 
fortunate young  man  who  had  fallen  a  victim  to  popular 
excitement;  yet,  notwithstanding  all  this,  there  are 
many  people  living  to-day  who  still  continue  to  believe 
him  guilty.  The  injury  which  the  world  has  done  to 
him  can  never  be  fully  atoned  for ;  the  life  they  had 
taken  it  was  impossible  to  return. 

And  now  a  few  words  more  and  we  have  done. 

Most  of  the  events  which  we  have  narrated  had  their 
origin  in  Mrs.  Crosswell's  house,  between  Leslie  Wynd- 
ham,  James  Farly,  and  his  wife,  Mary.  Who  was  to 
blame  ?  Some  of  you  will  say  the  woman,  for  she  did 
not  do  her  full  duty  as  a  wife.  Others  will  place  the 
blame  on  James  Farly,  and  some  will  be  found  who 
will  blame  Leslie  Wyndham  for  interfering  between 
them.  As  for  ourselves,  we  might  say  one,  we  might 
say  the  other,  and  yet  again  we  might  say  all  three. 
However,  we  leave  it  to  you  to  decide,  only  caution- 
ing you  to  be  careful  how  you  judge,  lest  you,  too,  be 

IN  FAULT. 

THE  END. 


